


Outlet

by La_Matrona, ShayaLonnie



Series: Outlet!verse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Emotional Baggage, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Learning BDSM, Not Epilogue Compliant, Not Fluff, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 161,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22249729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Matrona/pseuds/La_Matrona, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShayaLonnie/pseuds/ShayaLonnie
Summary: War wounded Harry and Hermione return to Hogwarts for their last year, but there's something wrong with Harry. Hermione makes it her mission to help him find an outlet for his unexpected frustrations only to realise that he has become hers, and they are both way in over their heads.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Series: Outlet!verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984487
Comments: 1934
Kudos: 3677
Collections: Good Girl Hermione, Hermione Is Black Girl Magic, Hermione's Secret Stash, Hufflepuff Jess's Favorite





	1. Chapter 1

Harry knew there was something wrong with him. And not just the cut on his eyebrow.

He glanced around the Hog's Head, glad that he and Hermione had gone there instead of the Three Broomsticks. For all that Aberforth Dumbledore was now considered a hero due to his efforts in the war, he was still a bit of a surly bastard and most didn't take well to his company. Harry found him rather comforting in a strange way.

The man in question stood behind the bar, silently wiping the counter with a dirty flannel, all while Hermione dabbed a clean cloth from her bag to Harry's brow.

"Are you sure you don't just want Madam Pomfrey to do this for you?" she asked.

Harry shook his head. "I'd always rather it be you."

Madam Pomfrey would ask questions and worry. There would also be the chance that someone else might see him and begin whispering. It was why he'd wanted to avoid the Broomsticks: the gossiping. War hero or not, Harry carried with him the same celebrity, and now it felt worse. Before, when he had been just a potential Heir of Slytherin or the boy who had lied about Voldemort's return, he'd expected the worst. Now, it was as though people were just waiting for him to fall from grace.

It didn't help that the castle was especially crowded these days. There were the usual round of students—new and returning—but there was also what were being called the "returning eighth years", students who had either missed their seventh year due to the war or had elected to retake it in order to actually have a chance at passing their NEWTs.

Harry hated the idea of walking back to the castle and having people give him looks. Then again, he had been serving an awful lot of detention so far this year. Most professors took it easy on him, but the headmistress had little patience for his trouble. Harry adored McGonagall for that, even if it meant he spent some evenings polishing candelabras.

"Did many people see?" he asked, squinting as Hermione pulled the cloth away to examine the cut.

She gave him a terse look that would have sent his eleven-year-old self running for the hills. As it was, Harry felt mostly immune to her scoldings and temper these days. Mostly.

"Did many people see Harry Potter, most famous wizard in all of Britain sucker punch the Seeker for Puddlemere United in the centre of Hogsmeade?"

He let out a small huff. "I am not the most famous wizard in all of Britain."

He was.

"And I did not sucker punch him."

He had.

"Do you want to tell me why you picked a fight with Ginny's new boyfriend?"

Letting out an exhausted sigh, he was tempted to scrape his hands down his face in frustration before he remembered that he was still bleeding. Harry had got in a good first few hits, but Ginny's new bloke was admittedly bigger, broader, and older by two years. Harry would not admit that the man had faster reflexes. That would have been too big of a hit to his ego.

"Because he's an arsehole?" he finally offered.

Hermione did not look amused. "And what's your excuse for punching Zacharias Smith in the nose last week?"

Harry let out a quiet snort of laughter. That had been the best part of the school year thus far. "Because Smith is a cunt."

Thwapping him on the head, Hermione hissed something about language that Harry couldn't quite make out, as the searing pain went through his brow and right to the back of his eye. "Ow, Hermione!"

Squinting up at her through his good eye, he saw that she looked contrite, though it appeared as though she were trying to keep up the stern facade.

"And Anthony Goldstein? Was he a—" She blushed, a soft rosy colour on her dark skin, appearing unable to bring herself to say the word. "Was he that too?"

"No," Harry muttered, looking down. "But he was being a bit of a twat."

"Oh, well that's alright then."

He smiled up at her, ignoring her obvious sarcasm and leaning against her shoulder a bit. "I knew you'd see it my way."

The smile, of course, helped to hide the unease he was feeling. His magic felt like it was often overflowing, or worse yet, building up behind a dam, the pressure pushing against his skin, ready to burst at any minute. The fights, he knew, were related somehow, but Harry didn't give them too much thought. He'd taken worse from Dudley over the years growing up, after all. And most of the pricks he ended up in a tussle with really deserved it—or something, but Harry did always hate disappointing both Hermione and McGonagall.

Hermione patted his head, running her fingers through his hair in a fruitless attempt to tame it, and then gave up with a small huff.

"My point is, you've been awfully… aggressive lately."

Harry averted her gaze. She worried. He hated when she did that. "I know." Hell, that aggression had been one of the reasons he'd opted out of Kingsley's offer to join the Auror Training Programme that summer. In addition to wanting to help restore Hogwarts, Harry didn't feel he was safe enough to just be let loose on Wizarding Britain. Not _all_ Dark Wizards had Horcruxes and needed killing, after all.

"Maybe if they'd let me play Quidditch," he said petulantly.

She gave him a look, a famously _Hermione_ look that managed to be both sympathetic and exasperated.

"Yes, well, it would hardly have been fair to the younger years. Still—" She pulled out her wand, aiming it at the cut above his eyes and healing it before she continued, "—you're not completely wrong. It was an outlet for your more hostile tendencies."

Hermione fell silent, and when she had stopped tending to his eye, he reached up to tenderly rub at it, enjoying the dull ache now that the stabbing pain had subsided. His knuckles still felt a good kind of sore, not that he'd ever admit so out loud.

"It's not because I was jealous," he blurted out, not entirely sure why he needed to clarify. "Ginny's . . . boyfriend," he said, rolling his eyes a bit at the word. "He was just being all pompous and . . . When we broke up, I said that she deserved better than me. I'm not a catch, but she didn't have to take a step down, you know."

"Twelve steps down. Did you see him staring at Lavender's arse?"

He had. He had _also_ caught Ron staring at Lavender's arse, but he decided to keep that bit to himself for the sake of friendship.

"Exactly." He smiled, feeling a bit of his tension bleed away as he looked up at her, glad that the disappointed expression had faded. "Twelve steps down, yeah?"

Hermione's cheeks reddened a bit but her expression didn't change. "Yes. And don't let it go to your head, but from what I hear in the common room, you're the biggest _catch,_ " she said with more force than strictly necessary, and Harry cringed, "that most fifth years can imagine."

He rolled his eyes at the thought. "Just what I want out of life: fifteen-year-old witches swooning," he said sarcastically and let out a quiet groan as he remembered the awkward hell that had been Romilda Vane during his sixth year. "Feel free to magically shut them up for me, would you?"

Hermione laughed. "As satisfying as that might be, I think I'll let _my_ aggression out elsewhere." She paused, eyes widening. "Oh!"

Snickering at the sudden blush to her cheeks, Harry stood up and gave her a friendly shoulder bump. "Dare I wonder what aggression Hermione Granger needs to let out. Should I warn anyone to start running for the hills?"

"Harry," she cautioned.

He raised his hands to his mouth to make his voice louder as he continued. "Attention fellow witches and wizards, stay away from birds, centaurs, and jars." He let out a loud laugh as she smacked his arm lightly, watching the way her mouth fell open in objection.

"Merlin, Harry. That isn't what I meant." Her cheeks were still rosy. "I was just thinking maybe _you_ would benefit from an alternate form of, erm, energy release. A way to express yourself so that punching people isn't your only outlet. "

"I'm really bad at calligraphy," he said, teasing her.

"But you're brilliant with a broom, and I'm sure you'll be excellent at lots more things once you take the time to explore them."

He raised his good eyebrow. "Like sweeping?"

"No!" She swatted at his shoulder again. "Quidditch. Flying. Sports things. Stuff. Oh, you know what I meant."

Grinning, Harry asked, "Can you go into more detail about this 'sports things'?"

Before she had a chance to hit him again, the door opened and a bleeding Ron stepped in. Harry and Hermione turned to look at him, dusting his jumper off and looking at the bar. "Aberforth? Firewhisky if you would?"

"Ginny?" Harry asked, gesturing to Ron's split lip.

"Twat," Ron angrily muttered, and then he quickly added, "Her bloke. Not Ginny." His head swung toward the entrance, and he looked actually terrified his sister might have heard. Harry didn't blame him. "Prat picks a fight with Harry Potter of all people? Is he mental? Even if you weren't who you are, you're my best friend, and Ginny needs to just . . ." He huffed in obvious frustration. "Stop dating, or . . . something! You know, you're both lucky you're only children."

Harry patted Ron on the back, handing over the Firewhisky that Aberforth had silently placed on the counter. Harry set down a few coins in exchange for the drink before giving it to Ron. "Thanks for having my back, mate."

"Yes, thank you for encouraging his behaviour, Ron."

Harry narrowed his gaze a bit at Hermione, who was looking very disapproving. "Should I remind you that _he's_ bleeding too?"

She just stared at him for a moment before seeming to regain her senses and waving him off dismissively.

"Yeah, but this time _I_ didn't start it," Ron said proudly, swallowing down half of the firewhisky in one large gulp before wiping his face off on his sleeve. "Do I get points for that 'Mione?"

"For that, you get your face mended."

Watching her tend to Ron's wounds, Harry purposely tried not to recall the war, particularly the splinching incident in the forest when he was certain Ron would bleed out on the ground. As the image forced its way into his mind, he clenched his fists and looked away, trying to distract himself. "Hermione's going to find something for me to do that's not Quidditch."

Ron snorted. "Better off finding some _one_ to . . ." He stopped and looked up at Hermione, who looked livid. "Er . . ."

"By all means, don't stop on my account. Someone to _what_?" Her hands were on her hips now, her wand stowed neatly away as she scowled at him.

Ron glanced at her, then back down at the rest of his drink. He sighed and swallowed it down then cleared his throat. Standing up, he stared down at her, looking as though he were summoning that legendary Gryffindor courage. Harry watched in great amusement, already feeling what was coming and with absolutely zero inclination to stop his friend from the hole he was about to step in.

"Better off finding someone to polish his knob." The words fell out of Ron's mouth just as quickly as his feet carried him back out the door of the pub.

Harry let out a bellowing laugh.

"Coward!" Hermione shouted after him, and then she turned back to face Harry. "I'd like to see him say something that crass in his mother's hearing."

Shrugging, Harry couldn't wipe the smile from his face. The pain in his brow had almost gone away completely, and the day was already looking brighter.

"I think he's a glutton for punishment. I, on the other hand, am done with being on the receiving end of that. We better follow after him or we'll miss curfew, and I don't want another detention." Without another word, Harry reached down and collected her new book bag—complete with what felt like twelve new volumes—shifting the strap over his shoulder. "You coming?"

She smiled at him, tucking her wand away up her sleeve and threading her arm through his as she'd done a hundred times before. "Let's go, Rocky," she said, gently touching his still-aching brow to inspect it before giving him a small smile.

* * *

There was something wrong with Harry. Hermione knew this was true because she'd made a _study_ of him lately. He was jumpy, angry, and had developed an astonishing lack of patience that Hermione hadn't seen in him since their fifth year.

Yes, there was something wrong with him, and she was going to solve it. This time, she knew, it was no bloody Horcrux in his head, no Dark Lord stoking a connection he barely understood to manipulate Harry into acting rashly. So _this_ she could handle.

In all likelihood, the restlessness she'd observed in him was nothing more than stress, stress that he had been bottling up without a pressure release valve and which was now leaking messily out of any odd corner it could find. And if that was the case, all she needed to do was find an outlet.

"Pass the jam, will you Ron?" She pointed at the small bowl to his left and he handed it over from where he sat beside her without comment. That had become normal for Ron lately. He still ate at the same breakneck pace he'd always done, but now he was doing it with the urgency of a man who didn't know when he'd see his next meal and thus, had no time for conversation. Honestly, she couldn't blame him, not when she knew for a fact he was just as intimate with starvation as she was.

And then there was Harry. Harry, who brooded over his food lately, stabbing it with fork and knife as if it had somehow offended him. The latest victim of his ire was a bowl of porridge he was marauding, his grip tight on the spoon which was his instrument of chaos.

She watched him from across the table, looking for the tension in his shoulders that had become his constant companion of late. It was there, but not as prominent as usual. Of course, he'd gotten into another fight since Hogsmeade, this time with a Ravenclaw seventh year. She hadn't heard what the other boy had said, but Ron had told her it had been unflattering toward Luna, so maybe the Ravenclaw had deserved it.

She really needed to get the outlet thing sorted out. Who knew how many more detentions Harry could get before the Headmistress started threatening Expulsion. Boy who Lived or not, he could hardly walk around hitting people at random and expect to keep his place at the school. And speaking of school...

"Have you both finished your essays for Slughorn?" She asked.

Ron swallowed and loaded his fork again. "Leave off, Hermione, you'll put us off our food."

She rolled her eyes, turning to Harry instead. He was looking down at his plate and frowning.

"Hermione, we're not twelve anymore. You don't need to remind us." His voice was soft yet firm, but she smarted a bit at the censure all the same.

"Aren't we?" she asked, keeping her tone light. "I could have sworn I saw Lockhart in the corridor on my way in."

Ron snorted. "Can you imagine? McGonagall'd have the peacock for lunch."

"I wonder if that's his Patronus," said Harry, and this time Ron choked on a mouthful of pumpkin juice.

"That or a mirror," said Hermione, hitting Ron on the back. She waited until he'd recovered before she spoke again.

"So, about those essays?"

This time, both men groaned audibly.

"Yeah, yeah. I've got it," said Ron, and Hermione turned her gaze toward Harry.

"I've still got time to finish mine," he said, not looking her in the eye as he poured himself a glass of water out of the silver pitcher between them.

Hermione raised both brows. "Class is this afternoon. Are you planning on writing it over lunch?"

"What does it matter?" He sounded irritated now, and Hermione felt Ron shift beside her as Harry continued, "I'll get it done. And if I don't, then I just won't be a potions prodigy."

"Harry—" she began, but he looked up, meeting her gaze with an expression she couldn't quite describe but felt in her bones.

"It's one essay. I'll do it."

Hermione's heart was beating loudly now, and she didn't know why. What she _did_ know, was that there was no way Harry was getting a footlong essay done well between classes today. Couldn't he see what an issue that was?

"Slughorn liking you isn't going to get you through your NEWTS, Harry," she said, and she could hear the lecturing tone of voice she used, shriller than she'd like and breathier than usual. Still, she continued. "The essay isn't for the grade, it's to learn the material. You'll need to know what's on there to pass the test and get the E so you can go on to aurora training and—"

She stopped, her mind going completely blank as she felt a warm hand take hers from across the table, strong, calloused fingers wrapping around her own and giving them a gentle squeeze. She looked at the hand and then followed it up, past the wrist and then the arm to a pair of bright green eyes that were looking at her in a way she'd never been looked at before.

"Hermione. I don't care what Slughorn thinks of me." Harry's voice had taken on that soft yet firm quality from before, and she couldn't just hear it, she could _feel_ it down to her toes. "But I do care what _you_ think of me. I'd prefer that you not think I'm a child that needs to be followed up on to make sure my chores are done. I'm a grown man…" Hermione let out a breath she'd been holding in, a little too loudly perhaps because Harry's eyes narrowed. "Despite the fact that I share the same wardrobe as the eleven-year-olds in this castle."

And then she blinked because he was right. She could see the stubble on his chin that he hadn't bothered to shave for several days, and the way his robes fit just a _touch_ too tight to accommodate shoulders which had broadened since the end of the war. He was right. He was a grown man. They were _all_ grown now.

"We both love you, Hermione," Harry continued, his voice softer now, and Hermione felt her own heart thumping away in her chest. "And I know you have good intentions. But it would please me very much if you stopped talking about the bloody essay."

Hermione swallowed. She wanted to respond, wanted to tell him he was risking his whole academic career with his negligence, risking his future as an Auror and the normal life he'd fought so hard for during the war… But there was something about the _way_ he was looking at her that made her bite her lip and shift under his gaze.

She swallowed again and studied the set of his jaw, the gleam in his eye. He looked so sure of himself, so certain that she would listen. He looked like the man she'd gotten to know so well in the tent last year when Ron had gone and it had been just the two of them. Attentive, responsible, commanding… Harry.

Blinking, she lowered her gaze to her own plate as he let go of her hand and lifted a forkful of egg to her lips.

"Merlin, Hermione," Ron said with a choking gasp, "you're not going to let him off the hook that easy, are you? I get at least ten minutes of haranguing when I skip assignments."

"He's a grownup," she answered when she had swallowed her bite. "I trust him to make his own decisions." She could feel Harry's eyes on her as she spoke, but she kept her own gaze riveted on her plate.

Ron stared at her, incredulous.

"A grown-up. Really." He sounded confused.

Across from her, Harry shifted back on the bench, his movements unhurried and languorous. "Legal and everything. I defeated a dark lord, you know."

Hermione smiled, raising a glass of pumpkin juice to hide the curve of her lips as she lifted her gaze at last and met Harry's green eyes again across the table. She watched as he took another spoonful of oats, how his hand had loosened on the spoon and the tension in his shoulders had eased almost completely.

 _Interesting_.

"Bloody hell, don't look now," said Ron.

Of course, they looked up, and just in time to see Ginny enter the room. She scowled when she spotted them, her gaze particularly venomous when it landed on Harry.

"I don't think she's forgiven you yet, mate," said Ron, stuffing another forkful of beans into his mouth.

Hermione watched as the tension flooded back into Harry's shoulders, as his hand tightened around his spoon.

"Ah, fuck me," he said.

"Doesn't look like she'd fancy that much," Hermione quipped.

Ron gave her a dirty look and took another bite of breakfast.

* * *

The boys weren't the only ones war had changed. Hermione didn't like to acknowledge it, but her life had changed too. She slept with her wand now, sliding it under her pillow where she could keep a hand on it just in case. She slept with a dagger too, but she kept it tucked safely in her bedside drawer. And she didn't like to be looked at. Before the war, she'd accumulated a certain amount of vanity. She'd been clever— _very_ clever—and she enjoyed the attention that came with that quality. Praise from her professors, admiration from her friends, and jealousy from her competitors. She'd been the first to raise her hand in any class. She'd been the one with the answers.

But now? Now she liked observing more than participating. She wasn't hiding her intelligence, not really, but the looks and the praise no longer pleased her as they once had. How could they when they came from people who didn't really know her? Didn't know she'd spent the Summer tracking down parents she'd obliviated in haste, only to realize that what she'd done was permanent. There were no counter charms for Muggle's who'd lost their memories, there was no hidden bank of feelings she could tap into to convince them she was who she claimed to be. She'd taken it all. She'd performed two _perfect_ obliviations. Lockhart would have been proud.

Yes, war had changed her, but, the end of the war had changed her more.

So she paid attention to the lecture, listening as other students raised their hands and gave the answers she wrote in her notebook, and as Professor Barebone droned on about human to animal temporary transfiguration, her mind began to wander.

So did her eyes.

Harry sat on the other side of Ron, his hair a mess as he scribbled on a roll of essay grade parchment. She felt a twinge of guilt for having pressed him about it earlier, and then a twinge of something else when she remembered the weight of his hand over hers.

What had it been about that interaction that had left Harry so serene? What had melted the stress away and left him with that satisfied look he'd had before Ginny had walked in glaring daggers?

She sighed, pulling out a little notebook she kept in her bag and opening it up over her class notes on the desktop. She flipped through its pages until she landed on a list she'd made two nights ago. It was titled, "Outlets" and had twelve or so words one after another in a column down the centre of the page.

She studied it, looking back and forth between the list and Harry until she huffed and tore a blank page from the back of the notebook and wrote seven words across it in a tight cursive.

_What do you like most about Quidditch?_

Surreptitiously, she jabbed the note with her wand. Is disappeared at once, and on the other side of Ron, Harry startled for just a moment before looking her way and then back down again.

She waited patiently as he scrawled something underneath her question and then sent the note back to her.

_Reconsidering your lack of love for the game?_

She bit her lip to keep from laughing.

_Please. If Viktor Krum couldn't make me love that sport, I don't think anything can. And you didn't answer my question._

There was that damned tension in his damned shoulders again.

_You still writing to Krum?_

_Occasionally. We're pen friends. Answer?_

Harry leaned down to give his reply, running a hand through his hair and then looking her way once he'd sent his reply back to her.

_Fine. I guess, aside from flying, I liked the competition. The control. It was just me out there with the Snitch, trying to win for my team._

He was still watching her. She smiled at him and wrote back.

_Thank you… I think we ought to try running._

It had been low on her list before, but if what Harry needed was control and solitude? Well, a brisk jog seemed like a good fit. He could set the pace, choose the distance, and have all the alone time he needed.

_Didn't you get enough of that last year?_

She gave him a pointed look and sent the note back without dignifying his comment with a response.

_Fine. If you want to run, I'll run._

She smiled again.

_Want is a strong word. But I think it might help. Outlet and all that. Tomorrow morning? I'll invite Ron to join._

She watched as Harry smirked down at the note and wrote his reply.

_If you can get Ron to actually run before breakfast, I'll buy you a new homework planner._

She needed a new planner, actually. Challenge accepted.

_I'll hold you to that. You'd be surprised the things I'm capable of talking Ron into… is that a yes?_

Harry made a face.

_As long as you never tell me what things you're capable of talking Ron into._

Hermione snorted softly.

"Something to share with the class, Miss Granger?"

She vanished the note as Professor Barebone approached.

"No sir," she answered, and then put her notebook away. She stole a glance at Harry as she did so, noting that the tightness from his shoulders had crept into his jaw now. Hopefully running the next morning would work as she hoped because she wanted nothing more than to banish that tension to hell.

"Eyes front then," said Professor Barebone, and Hermione did as she was told.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We wanted to just say thank you to all of you amazing readers! We've both been a bit out of the writing game this past year, so coming back to this fantastic reception has been such a boost! We are hoping to stick to a weekly updating schedule for this story, but because we felt so boosted by you all, we wrote a lot more than usual and readied this chapter for you several days early!

It was still dark outside when they began executing Hermione's little plan to go running that morning.

The previous night's sleep had been just as terrible as the weeks' and months' before it. Harry had thought that coming back to Hogwarts would ease some of the tension that had been overwhelming him, along with the sleepless nights he'd been enduring. He had been looking forward to going back up the stairs to the old familiar comfort of the room he had shared with Ron, Neville, Seamus, and Dean for six years, but the returning eighth years had had different accommodations made by the castle.

Off of the main common room, a large doorway had magically opened up into a long corridor that separated individual rooms. Ron, thankfully, was just across the hall, but Hermione's room was around two corners at the end of the corridor in her own small suite.

The nights were no longer spent playing Exploding Snap until the early morning hours. There was no window overlooking the Black Lake. There were no more sounds of his roommates sleeping in the beds next to him.

The silence kept Harry awake.

Ron knocking on his door that morning had startled him out of the few hours of rest Harry had been able to achieve. He still didn't know how Hermione had convinced their friend to go running before sunrise, but he figured that bribery was involved rather than blackmail because Ron looked excited. For all Harry knew, she'd probably agreed to buy him a new broom.

The crisp October air left a chill on his arms that woke him straight away, and he narrowed his eyes at Ron wearing jogging shorts in the cold weather, his pale legs turning red as he sprinted around each curve of the lake.

Harry stayed behind a bit, not overly enthusiastic about the activity to begin with, but also because Hermione wasn't as fast as he and Ron were, and Harry didn't want to just leave her behind. After the first lap or so, she began to catch up, but trying to keep pace with Ron was seemingly impossible for the both of them. The faster he ran, the more out of breath Harry and Hermione got.

It had to be a Weasley thing. Maybe it helped that Ron still occasionally napped during lectures.

"Woo!" Harry heard coming up from behind. Grumbling under his breath, he was tempted to shove Ron in the lake when he passed him—again. "And it's Weasley in the lead!"

Harry turned his head, and he was glad to see that Hermione looked just as homicidal as he felt when Ron began to slow down to jog in place next to her. The git wasn't even sweating yet.

"And now he's passing The Chosen One-one-one," Ron said, using a deeper voice that he added an echo to. "And what's that? The brightest witch of her age-age-age?" He made his way up to Harry's side, grinning. "Can you hear the crowds chanting?" He began jogging backward, away from Harry with his hands cupped around his mouth as he began loudly singing 'Weasley is Our King'.

Harry stopped moving, bending forward to catch his breath and stretch his back. When Hermione reached his side, he looked at her and groaned. "Remember. . . when. . . he left us. . . and we. . . made a pact to. . . never murder him in his. . . sleep?"

She nodded, leaning back and clutching at her side. "Regretting. . . Oh God this hurts. . . Regretting. . . that." Sweat trickled down the side of her face, and wayward curls sprang from her head. "I mean. . . who would miss him really?"

Thinking about it for a minute, Harry looked up in time to see Ron already turning beyond arocky outcropping ahead, the speedy bastard. He was still singing, which forced a chuckle out of Harry. "Us. Eventually. Might take years though." He stretched his arms up above his head, enjoying it until there was a slight click in his shoulder. "You know why he's so freakishly fast right? Those horrid pale legs. Twice the length of me, they are."

Hermione eyed Ron's legs in the growing distance and then glanced surreptitiously at Harry's. On instinct, he tried to flex his calves. "He's not that much taller than you, but you're right. Very pale. Water?"

"Please." Harry smiled, watching as she withdrew her wand, transfiguring a nearby rock into a large cup and summoning fresh water from the tip of her wand into it. After letting her have the first drink, Harry gulped down a mouthful, propping his elbow up on top of her head lightly. "I suppose we all look tall to you."

She laughed and ducked away from him, almost causing him to stumble. "Watch the hair, Goliath," she said, tucking her wand back away before starting to jog once again. Harry chuckled, watching her go and figuring she could use a head start. "Oh hell," he heard her say, wincing loudly as she came to an immediate stop, gripping her side.

Tossing the transfigured cup down, Harry quickly made his way to her, frowning as he turned her to face him. He looked down at where she was holding herself and sighed heavily. Years of playing Quidditch helped him pinpoint her issue. "Didn't you stretch first? Give me your hands. I can stretch you out."

"Yes I bloody stretched," she snapped, pulling away from him until the stitch in her side obviously pinched again and she nearly yelped in reaction.

Harry gave her a look, narrowing his eyes, and Hermione sighed in defeat before relinquishing her hands to him. He pulled her close, letting one arm dangle down to the side while he focused on using the leverage to gently pull the other over her head, eventually having her bend at the waist. He smiled slightly when she let out a little whimper, but eased into the motion until he felt her completely relax.

"Oh, that feels good," she nearly moaned, and Harry cleared his throat, trying to focus on helping his friend instead of the fact that her dangling arm was brushing up against his thigh. "Harder please."

Harry shut his eyes tight, hating every single thing that ran through his mind. He wanted to jump away from her and dunk his head in the lake, but letting her go now would not only defeat the purpose of helping her out, it would also likely send her stumbling into the water as well.

"I just thought I was more in shape and wouldn't need quite so much... just a touch harder, Harry. . ." He thought of his Uncle Vernon, Dolores Umbridge, and that ugly Snatcher. . . What was his name? Scabior! Harry focused on the images in his head, letting Filch wander in as well, as he pulled harder at Hermione's arm, letting her body prop up against his own to deepen the stretch.

She let out a happy moan, and Harry decided he couldn't take it anymore. Quickly letting go of her arm, he stayed stable enough so that she wouldn't tip into the lake, but the moment Hermione regained her balance, he darted in front of her. "Right. . . umm. . . Mental, this. Running for a hobby."

Hermione looked at him strangely, so Harry avoided eye contact with her, ready to get on with the task at hand. He turned around back to the path, almost running into Ron who had doubled back.

"Come on then!" Ron said, smiling. "Jog on!"

Trying to shove him was futile, he was too fast, and Harry didn't want to chance hexing his best friend. So, as Ron began running away, Harry just flipped him off. "Right," he said with a sigh, hands on his hips as he turned to look back at Hermione. "Should we get back to it then? You feel all right?"

She nodded, brushing a stray curl away from her face "Yes. Thanks. And I'm determined not to let Ron lap me again. He's going to be insufferable at breakfast, you know?"

"He'll be too busy eating."

They shared a laugh and then fell silent as they began moving, picking up their pace once around a corner where the path levelled out a bit despite the ground shifting from sand and grass to hard dirt and rocks.

Harry knew that she would eventually be upset if he lingered back for her sake, so he picked up his own pace and sprinted ahead of her until the cold morning air filled his lungs, hurting just a little as he took in deep breaths. Once his heart was racing, reminding him a little of the adrenaline he would get from a great dive on his broom, he began thinking that maybe Hermione was right, and this could be something to help him.

He smiled at her, turning around and jogging backwards—though not as well as Ron had done. Hermione waved him off, moving faster to try to catch up with him. Harry rolled his eyes and turned around, slowing down just a touch, not wanting to leave her behind.

Just when he thought the tension in his shoulders had dissipated, the muscles there pinched sharply at the sound of Hermione yelping from behind him and groaning, "Shit!"

Harry spun on his heel, almost slipping on the rocks as he spotted Hermione on the ground, clutching at her knee.

The cold air faded as fast as he felt the blood drain from his face, the skin of his cheeks growing oddly hot. He could hear his heart pounding hard in his ears, and before he realised it, his legs began moving of their own accord, racing to her side before nearly falling himself as he skidded to a halt.

"Goddammit. Are you hurt?"

She dusted off the palms of her hands, both scratched but not bleeding. "I'm fine, just tore my joggers," she said, pulling at the fabric and touching the skin beneath.

When she pulled her hand back, Harry saw blood on her fingertips and felt his stomach lurch and his vision blur. "Maybe you're not ready for something like this," he said, feeling furious and not realising that his emotions were influencing his tone. "We both lost a lot of weight last year and...hold still, let me look at it."

She shoved at him a bit, clearly not pleased with his sudden shift in mood. "It's just a scrape, Harry. And I think running from Snatchers and running from dragons and running from bloody Death Eaters last year prepared me plenty for a bloody jog around a bloody lake!"

He narrowed his eyes at her, not appreciating the specific reminder of everything they had been through.

"Hand me my wand," she demanded, pointing to where the object had fallen during her little trip.

Glancing at the wand several feet away, Harry ignored her request and grabbed her leg, pulling it close to him but doing his best not to touch the injured knee as he inspected it. "It's not just a scrape; you're bleeding."

When she tried to tug her leg away, she pulled too hard, causing the fabric to rub against the scrape on her skin, and she hissed in pain.

Harry glared at her. "Stay down."

"What happened?" Ron shouted from down the path.

Looking up, Harry shouted, "Run and get us some dittany!"

Hermione rolled her eyes, trying to plant her foot in a way that would allow her to stand. "Harry, honestly. I've had worse, and I can walk if you give me a—"

"I _know_ you've had worse!"

He didn't realise he had grabbed both of her hands to prevent her from getting up, nor did he notice until he was already there that he had positioned himself practically between her legs, towering over her in his attempt to keep her still.

They both stopped moving, and Hermione eventually settled back down, looking up at him. Determined to help her, Harry sighed, letting go of her hands. "Can you just let me take care of you for once?"

He watched as her lips parted. She looked like she was still breathing as hard as she had been when running. It was only when the sunrise broke through the trees, light reflecting on her face that Harry noticed her pupils were wide. "Hermione?"

She licked her lips, clearing her throat. "I— Yes. Okay."

He almost let his own mouth fall open in shock at her compliance, but he was resolved to keep himself in check. However, she refused to break eye contact, and he decided he wouldn't be the first to look away. Despite having let go of her hands, she hadn't moved. There was a thrumming in his chest when he also realised that he was still there, knelt between her knees. Still . . . she didn't move away from him. She didn't shove him off of her. She didn't tear her gaze away from his eyes.

 _Oh God, what am I doing?_ Harry thought, pulling himself up and away from her and nearly throwing his body to the side, reaching to grip her wand where it had fallen. When he pulled himself back to his knees, he looked down at her, feeling awkward now. "You...you still need a hand?"

Hermione cleared her throat, eyes moving from his face to her wand before she nodded softly. She took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet.

Harry frowned when he noticed her wince as she put pressure on her injured leg.

"Harry?"

He couldn't bring himself to look at her face, so he looked up toward the castle. "Ron's coming with the dittany." After a beat, he muttered, "Sorry I yelled at you."

The silence that followed was tense.

"Oh. You don't have to apologise," she whispered before clearing her throat again, her tone somewhat returning to normal. "I was being stubborn. I probably deserved it. Thank you." He furrowed his brow in confusion and finally looked up, meeting her eyes. "Not for the shouting. I mean, you know, helping."

Harry swallowed hard, doing what he could to pretend he hadn't just cocked up one of the two most important relationships of his life. "Sure."

They waited in absolute silence as Ron ran the length of the lake back to them, bottle in hand. Harry wondered if he should apologise again. He thought of what Ron would have said had he seen them moments earlier. What jokes Ginny would have made. What Molly or McGonagall or anyone who had eyes would have assumed. God, what Rita Skeeter would have printed.

"I'm sure you'll be fine," Harry blurted out, stepping a few more feet away from her before smiling, his shoulders so tense they ached. He wanted to punch someone and deeply regretted that Malfoy hadn't returned to school.

Hermione nodded, returning his awkward smile. But her expression quickly faded, replaced with something that looked thoughtful. The longer she said nothing, the more Harry worried.

"Hermione?"

"Yes?" she replied quickly, turning to look back at him as though she had been waiting for him to say her name.

He stared at her intently, quietly wondering what was wrong with him. All he'd had to do was run around the bloody lake. Ron had managed to do it with ease, not once yelling or panicking or falling on top of . . . Harry exhaled sharply and looked away from her. "I don't think running's going to fix what's wrong with me."

He didn't know if she would have responded, but Ron finally reached them, presenting the bottle of dittany to Hermione as though it were on a silver platter. "Right! Here we are." He tilted his head, looking at the tear in her joggers and the scrape beneath. "Oh, that's nothing, mate! She got much worse in the war."

Harry desperately wanted to punch someone.

* * *

Harry was in detention again, and Hermione was at her wit's end. Running had lasted exactly a week before she'd realised it wasn't working. The realisation had come with a black eye for Zacharias Smith (again) and a week's worth of scrubbing hallways by hand for Harry.

Hermione felt like a failure.

There had to be _something_ that would give Harry the same level of control he'd had over his emotions during his Quidditch years. He'd had a bloody Horcrux in his head then, for Circe's sake, and the thing was gone now. He should be seconds away from serene now. Unfortunately for him, Hermione was talented at many things, but apparently giving the people she loved what they actually needed was not one of them.

She looked down at the notebook in her lap, picking up her self-inking quill and drawing a thick, deep line through 'running'.

She'd have to pick one of the other ideas then, which was a pity because they were all complete shite.

Across the room, the portrait hole banged open, and Ron dashed into the common room, very nearly a skip in his step. "All right, 'Mione?" he asked, leaping over the back of the sofa and plopping down beside her. His weight tostled the cushions.

"Fine." She snapped the notebook shut and reached up to rub at the twin aches above her eyes. "What are you so jolly about?"

He grinned triumphantly. "Remember how I outran you both? Well, turns out, Parvati was watching from the windows. She's asked me to Hogsmeade next weekend." He shrugged, letting out a fake put upon sigh. "I think it's just a plot to get Lavender upset. The two had a row about . . . something this morning. Either way, I get to go to Hogsmeade with a girl."

"You've been with _me_ loads of times," Hermione said, arching a brow. "You were never this excited."

He stared at her for a moment as though he were gauging whether or not what he was about to say was smart. "Well, Parvati won't make me go to the book shop, will she?"

She leant sideways and smacked him on the arm.

"Arse. That's only because she doesn't read. The number of times I found her sounding out her letters was astonishing." Of course, she'd never found Parvati doing any such thing, but she knew Ron would understand that, and take her vinegar for what it was. . . a healthy ribbing, and a healthier dislike of the girl who'd made her dorm years hell.

Her words didn't seem to bother him, but he clearly caught her mood as he asked, "What's with you? I thought Harry might have a stick up his arse lately, but maybe he's got something and it's contagious." Smartly, this time, he stood up and moved out of reach from her.

"I'll tell him you said so when he's done with detention." She sighed and glanced back at the notebook balanced across her thigh. "Have you ever tried skating?"

He made a face. "On purpose? What for?"

"Fun? Self-expression?" She threw the notebook on the sofa and drew her legs up beneath her, tucking her feet up neatly. "It's just. . . I'm trying to find _something_ for Harry to do. Something he'll enjoy more than he likes punching Zacharias Smith in the face. I thought maybe running but it only made him angry. Maybe. . . Painting?"

Ron laughed brightly. "Painting? I think the only thing _anyone_ would like more than punching Smith in the face is, well . . ." He waggled his eyebrows at her. "Then again . . ." He seemed to mull something over in his mind before continuing. "Do you think Malfoy might still come back to school? Harry might enjoy punching _him_ more than Smith!"

Hermione covered her eyes with her hands. Unbelievable. Ron was _unbelievable_.

"Why is everything a joke to you? Why is everything about—about sex!?" He'd been just the same during their short-lived relationship the month after the war, and she loved him, she did, but the innuendo and the constant inability to take anything serious had driven her mad. It was the reason she'd asked to be just friends again, quite frankly.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Because I'm a nineteen-year-old man and no longer running for my life?" Taking on a suddenly serious look on his face, Ron sat down on the coffee table in front of her. "Honestly? With everything we did. . . Everything we lost. Isn't it just right to be happy and free?" He took a long pause, swallowing. "It's what Fred always did, y'know."

She lowered her hands, leaning on one propped against the back of the sofa and looked at him. She wanted to hug him, wanted to tell him it was all going to be okay, but she knew it wasn't what he needed. Not Ron.

"You're right," she said. "Now, help me pick something else for Harry to do from this blasted list. I'm not a matchmaker, and if he wants someone to—er—shag, he can find her himself."

Ron stared at her for a long time, looking as though he were contemplating her words. However, his usual confused or annoyed look had given way to something that seemed almost pitying. Eventually, he let out a sigh and shook his head. "Maybe make a list for _yourself_?" he suggested kindly. "Harry'll get sorted eventually. Nothing dark at play anymore. But _you_ look like you've been studying for NEWTs the way you're making homework of him."

Hermione flushed. "I'm not studying him." _Lie_. "I just don't want him to think he's alone. He spent so much time on his own before he met us, and. . . well, _I'm_ alone now too." She swallowed. "And I'm perfectly alright with that." _Lie._ "But now that we're both orphans, or _practically_ orphans—" She felt her throat growing tight but shoved whatever stupid, insipid, self-centred feeling that was about to sprout back down where it belonged. "I feel a bit of a responsibility. _More_ of one."

She looked away, she couldn't meet Ron's gaze right now, couldn't look into that earnest dark blue without losing the battle to keep herself from feeling something she didn't deserve to feel. Loss, heartbreak, loneliness? Those were for people who hadn't murdered their parents' minds.

She rolled her shoulders and took a deep breath.

"Anyway. It's not like they're any trouble, ideas." She paused again, picking up her notebook and flipping it back open. "I think I _will_ have him try painting."

Ron looked at her as though he wanted to hug her but knew better. He had always been terrible at hiding his emotions, and had seemed decidedly uncomfortable as she'd gone on speaking. Eventually, though, he cleared his throat and looked down at the notebook and then back up at her. "Right. Painting," he said with a stiff nod. "I think you and Harry'll get on fine with that. But count me out."

Hermione shrugged.

"Enjoy your date with Parvati," she said, and then watched him leave with several moments hesitation and a nod.

When he had gone, she started another list.

_Canvas, paint, easels, brushes, whatever the fuck else we need to paint with._

She growled, shutting the booklet again and watching as a second year across the room jumped at the noise and then give her an annoyed look. She stuck her tongue out in reply, though she knew it was childish and stupid.

Why had she said all that to Ron? Why had he said all that to _her_? Now her gut was heavy and her heart was beating far too quickly and she felt as if the whole room were closing in on her.

She tried to breathe. In and out, in and out, over and over as she threw an arm over her eyes and leant back against the sofa. Maybe Ron was right and aggression was catching, because all she wanted to do right now was scream.

More breathing.

Ron was stupid and she hated him.

She was stupid and she hated herself.

Like hell she was going to cry in the common room.

"Fuck."

She was being histrionic. Overreacting. Why did her chest feel like it was about to cave in on itself? Why couldn't she just pull herself together?

And then, like a cool breeze off the lake, she heard a soft, feminine voice in the back of her head.

_Breathe, love. That's right. Now, I want you to count. Can you count with me? Now, name five things you can feel, alright? Good, well done, darling. Now, four things you can hear. Three you see. Two you can smell. Yes, you can go get the candle. Now, name one thing you can taste, and we'll go get it from the shop. Anything at all._

When Hermione opened her eyes at last and let her arm drop down beside her, it was to the memory of chocolate orange melting on her tongue, and a heart which had almost stopped racing in her chest. The second year was gone and her body felt still, her limbs heavy.

Painting was a stupid idea.

She didn't care. For Harry, she'd go through a hundred terrible ideas, because when she landed on the right one, it would be worth it.

And then, unbidden, she heard Ron's voice again.

 _Better off finding some_ one _to . . ._

As far as ideas went, it wasn't exactly idiotic. She knew from personal experience that a good snog or a helpful hand could do worlds of good toward relieving stress. . . but whatever was going on with Harry, he needed a sustainable outlet, not some random woman to shag. Harry deserved so much more than a relationship for the sake of sex. He deserved someone to love him, someone who cared about him as much as he cared about literally everyone else in his life.

Still, she picked up her quill and scratched a single word onto the end of her list of ideas.

_Someone?_

The door to the portrait opened, and Harry stepped into the room looking worn out but still as tense as ever. Sweat and dirt crept up against his forehead, finding spaces to settle in the small crinkles there left over by years of stress.

He sighed, smiling at the sight of her. "Filch is a monster," he said, making his way toward her, stopping only to take the bottom hem of his shirt and lift it to wipe his face, revealing several inches of his stomach. "Had me scrubbing the floors with an actual brush. I think I outsmarted him, though," he added with a bit of a pep in his step. "Arse thought I'd never used one before. Thought I'd be at it all night, but I finished in just under two hours."

"I'm sure he was supremely disappointed," said Hermione, who had just managed to drag her eyes from the sliver of tanned skin still showing beneath his shirt. "Think he'll give you something else to do tomorrow?"

Shrugging, Harry sat down beside her. She could smell the sweat and the dirt on him, and it wasn't unpleasant. "If he's lucky. I ran into Ron in the corridor. I think he's getting in the middle of a war with Lavender and Parvati, if you ask me. Good for him if he comes out alive."

"Ron has a way of keeping all his limbs intact in situations like this," Hermione mused. "Besides. I don't think Lavender knows the _Oppugno_ Jinx."

Harry laughed. "You know, for a while when the two of you were. . . well, you know. . . I worried about his safety," he said teasingly.

Hermione snorted. "With good reason. I love Ron, but I couldn't stand him as a boyfriend. He was very. . ." She looked sideways at Harry, stopping herself just as the word she'd been looking for was on the tip of her tongue. "Well. It wasn't a fit." Harry didn't need to know how unappealing she'd found Ron's gentle kisses. Every time he'd trailed his mouth over her neck it had felt like skittering beetles against her sensitive skin.

He gave her an understanding nod. "I thought Ginny was what I needed. What I wanted. She's just too. . ." Hermione's ears perked up, and Harry shook his head. "I don't even know the word for it, really. Challenging?" he suggested but made a face as though the word did not quite fit. "Independent maybe. Sirius always said my mother was the same way, but I think maybe I differ in that way from my dad."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Hermione heard herself say. "Wanting someone to need you. To depend on you. My parents were—" Merlin, she hadn't let herself think of them so much in months— "Well, they were madly in love. My mum used to say she depended on dad to keep her on her toes. . . I suppose she still does."

Harry took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. It felt good, familiar. The pressure was comforting. "I think that would be nice. Maybe it's just because of everything with Voldemort and the war but. . . I like the idea of taking care of someone." He glanced at the notebook. "Maybe even you," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Are you already working on Flitwick's essay? It's not due for _weeks_ , Hermione."

Hermione was quiet for several seconds after his question, not because she didn't _want_ to respond, but because her breath had grown shallow and she couldn't draw her gaze away from the stern set of his brow.

She licked her lips which had gone suddenly dry and shook her head once.

"No," she said, and her voice sounded almost hoarse to her ears. "I haven't. It's a personal project." His hand was still on hers and suddenly that heat, that pressure, was the only thing she could focus on in the whole room.

"Good," Harry said, looking down at their hands. "I'm glad you're doing something for yourself."

Hermione cleared her throat. "Thank you." She cleared her throat again. "How about you then? Running didn't work out for either of us." She'd fallen again six days ago, which had been the final straw. "I thought we might try painting next? When you're done with detentions."

He sighed, letting go of her hand and running his through his hair. She felt the loss of it immediately. "Hopefully done with detention for now." He looked at her contemplatively. "If you want to paint, I'll paint with you. Will that make you happy?"

 _No_ , she thought, _but seeing your jaw unclench would make me very happy indeed._

"Yes, I think so. And I think it could make you happy too. If you like it."


	3. Chapter 3

Harry couldn't tell if it was just because the empty classroom they'd found was poorly lit, but his attempted painting of a phoenix looked decidedly like the Forbidden Forest set ablaze. This was a terrible idea but damned if he'd just come right out and say it. Hermione had actually seemed excited to paint. At least she couldn't get injured doing this, he reasoned.

"I never got to paint as a child," he said, tilting his head as he tried to figure out how to make the phoenix look less menacing. He briefly thought back to the few moments at Privet Drive when Aunt Petunia would even dare have any activity that would cause a mess. "Kids do finger painting and stuff, but I was never allowed."

Hermione glanced sideways at him, and she looked annoyed. "Well, that's probably because your aunt was . . . an unpleasant woman."

He grinned at her. "It was actually Dudley's fault." He gave a quick brushstroke, covering the phoenix's entire face in yellow, masking out the horrid job he'd done on the beak. "He ate all the paints."

She laughed and dabbed at her own canvas. "I knew a boy in grade one who did the same thing. The whole class had to give up watercolours for a month until he'd been properly shamed into eating food instead."

Snorting, Harry looked at her. "Dudley didn't need to be shamed into eating food. The paints were an appetizer."

Hermione returned his gaze, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "They should have left the pig's tail. Could have been a warning to his future wife."

He said nothing for a few minutes after that, pretending to concentrate on the painting. It was a complete loss. No coming back from what he'd done to it. Instead, he pushed the brush against the canvas without paying any attention to it, silently wondering what Dudley was actually doing right then. He'd heard from the Order that his family had moved back into Privet Drive, but there had been no contact. He didn't want any with Petunia and Vernon, that was certain, but he and Dudley _had_ parted on good terms. He felt slightly bad about being cruel just now, but then recalled the time when his cousin had stuck paint-covered fingers into his hair and Petunia had scolded _Harry_ for it.

In a bit of frustration, Harry flicked his paintbrush at the canvas, watching as little flecks of black and orange dotted the left side of the painting. Letting out a huff, he asked, "How is this supposed to help me if I'm rubbish at it?"

Peering over at his 'art', Hermione shook her head. "That's not rubbish, Harry. It's self-expression. We don't have to be good at something to express ourselves through it."

"Well, my self expresses poorly." He flicked the brush at the painting again, getting the right side. "What've you got?" He turned to look at her canvas and let out a defeated sigh. It was a near-perfect image of the sun rising over the Black Lake. It looked serene and beautiful. Likely all the things Hermione had been _hoping_ Harry would feel after this activity. "So you _are_ good at everything. Right."

She looked distressed at his proclamation and shook her head again. "No, it's just a hobby. Honestly, this is the first time I've painted in years, and the blending is terrible. Besides, it doesn't matter whether I'm good at it—which I'm not." She was starting to look flustered, and she glanced back at his canvas. "I like the paint specks you've done down the sides. They feel . . . frustrating."

He stared at her, hoping said frustration showed in his face. Then, taking in a breath, he grabbed his brush. "You like the specks?"

She nodded and gave him an earnest smile.

Grinning, he pulled the brush back with one finger, setting the end free and watching as orange and black paint speckled across her arm and chest.

"Self-expression," he said smugly. "The specks . . . they feel . . . _less_ frustrating."

Hermione stared at him, her eyes comically wide and her mouth agape as if she couldn't believe what he'd just done. But then, a smile dawned on her face, and it looked even better than her painting.

"Now you're getting it," she said, and she reached out with her own paintbrush, dabbing a bit of blue paint on the tip of his nose before turning back to her art. Amused by her attempt at retaliation, Harry casually dipped his fingers in the green paint container and turned toward her.

"You ever wonder how you'd look as a Slytherin?" he asked, waving his fingers at her tauntingly.

"No," she said, and it wasn't an answer to his question, it was an _order_. She started backing away slowly, hands raised in front of her as if she were trying to calm an erumpent. "Harry, don't you dare!"

Had they been attempting this years ago, Harry might've found her a slight bit intimidating—back when they were near the same height, at least. But now she was adorable and small, and when not brandishing a wand, she couldn't be less threatening to him. Diving forward, Harry grabbed her brush-wielding hand with his left, using his right to smear her cheek with the green paint, laughing the entire time.

"Stop!" she shrieked, but she was laughing too, and soon she was reaching down into one of her own paint cans before grabbing at any part of him she could reach. She wasn't even tugging away from him anymore after a few moments, just shouting with laughter and saying his name with varying degrees of faux sternness.

Without meaning to, Harry began to wonder when the last time he had laughed like this was. Surely since the end of the war? Right? Regardless, he fought her off as best as he could without putting much effort in, laughing harder when she actually put some of her strength into it. He could taste the paint and wondered what colours his face was.

Finding a nearby container of white, he dipped his whole hand in, grinning as she began backing away from him, eyes wide and lips parted as though she were ready to scold him or call him something awful. Before she had a chance though, Harry pushed her lightly with his paint-covered hand, slipping on some that had spilt on the floor, and launching them both against the nearby wall, Hermione pinned beneath him.

"Sorry," he said whilst still laughing, looking down to see his white handprint covering the skin of her chest, going up over her collarbone. A heat ignited in his own chest, and he felt that familiar tingle of magic—needing, craving, pulsing to be expelled from inside of him. It was the same feeling he'd been having right before any fight he'd been in that year. But this time, he didn't want to punch anything.

It wasn't rage.

It was something else.

Harry licked his lips and exhaled, the magic inside of him seeking an escape through breath alone without any other alternative.

It reminded him of that first morning jog when she had fallen. They had been so close, and she had been breathing so hard, just like now. Harry desperately wanted to know if she was feeling the same things that he was, but he certainly wasn't stupid enough to ask.

His voice sounded a little hoarse to him as he asked, "You all right?"

"Mhmm."

She squirmed a bit beneath him, her eyes darting away briefly as though looking for a way out of the awkward position, but Harry said, "Don't move," on instinct.

She stilled. Every inch of her. The only thing moving was her chest with that white handprint—his handprint—as she breathed and her heart beat and she stared up at him.

He let out another breath, his fingers tingling, his heart thrumming pleasantly in his chest at her immediate acquiescence. It felt familiar. Something tickled at the back of his mind, and he remembered their time on the run, weeks after Ron had left when Hermione had been too weak from carrying the Horcrux and had depended on Harry to look after her, momentarily deferring to him in her need. He had never told a soul, but he looked back on that time with her fondly—except, of course, for the Horcrux and partial starvation of it all.

"Hermione?" Harry whispered, bringing his still-paint-covered hand up and wiping it against her chin and up along her jawline.

Her voice was breathy when she answered, her whole body trembling now. "Yes, Harry?"

He didn't know what he'd meant to ask her. He didn't rightly know what he was thinking or doing. It was as though someone was pulling on strings connected to every part of him, tugging here and there to get him to move, blink, and breathe.

Opening his mouth to respond, though unaware of what words would come out, Harry was cut off by the sound of the door opening.

"Er . . . Everything all right in here?" Neville's voice called out from the doorway.

Quickly stepping away from Hermione, Harry cleared his throat and laughed softly. "Er, yeah, Nev. Just umm . . . doing some self-expression."

He glanced at Hermione to make sure she was okay, but she was still leaning against the wall looking positively shell-shocked.

Neville stared at them, looking back and forth with his brows raised up in obvious confusion before drawing to the floor and then eventually the easels. "You do realise the paint is supposed to go on the canvas, right, Harry?" he said with a small laugh.

Harry smirked, looking from Neville back to Hermione, still wide-eyed against the wall. "Everyone's a critic."

* * *

Harry was avoiding her. The prat.

Painting had lasted just the one evening because the next afternoon Harry had skipped class and earned another three nights worth of detention. Hermione had tried to discuss it with him, but he'd shut her down with the same commanding tone he'd grown so fond of using with her, and, like a bloody fool, she'd listened.

She didn't know what it was about him that made her want to do as she was told—she was hardly the sort of woman who enjoyed being bossed about—but when he expressed his needs and desires so clearly, she almost always felt compelled to give him what he'd asked for. Harry deserved it, after all. He'd spent his life doing for others, and the least she could do was make sure he knew someone cared enough to do the same for him.

Not that he gave even a single damn. All dropping the subject had earned her was a brooding green-eyed friend who was suddenly 'busy' any time she sought him out, who couldn't be found in the common room, and who never answered her knocks at his bedroom door.

Yes, he was definitely avoiding her.

It was probably her fault. Painting had been a ridiculous idea, and _still_ she'd pressed the issue. Why couldn't she have moved on when he'd gotten frustrated instead of hoping he'd change his mind? Why couldn't she have admitted defeat and smiled and told him she'd find something else for him to try?

Because she was stubborn. So stubborn that Harry had been forced to tackle her against a bloody wall in the midst of the entire debacle to get her to stay bloody still for two bloody seconds.

And then, because she was an idiot as well as an arse, she'd stood there with her mouth open and her heart racing and her unmentionables getting stupidly, embarrassingly, excruciatingly damp, while he'd moved on and tried to make the entire situation less awkward.

Circe, there was something wrong with her. _She_ was supposed to be helping _him_. She was supposed to be finding him something to do that would keep him from being expelled. Instead, all she'd managed to do was pant over him when he'd gotten close to her and make him feel so awkward he'd decided to avoid her completely rather than put himself through it again. Honestly, she couldn't blame him. It must have been startling to him, seeing her like that. They'd never had a relationship that would indicate a reaction anywhere close to the one she'd had . . . well, not recently, in any case.

Unbidden, memories of their time on the run together bloomed in her mind. She didn't remember the last year of the war with much fondness. It had been largely miserable. But there had also been times—between the hunger and the fear and the sleeplessness—when she'd felt truly safe, truly cared for, and truly sure that she was where she was _supposed_ to be. When Ron had gone, she'd been devastated. She'd sobbed into her pillow at night because she'd loved him and she'd missed him and she'd been betrayed by him. And who had been there to pick up the pieces?

Harry. Always Harry. By the time she'd stopped crying, he'd taken the lead. Planning, scavenging for food, giving her space when she needed it and refusing to leave her alone when he could tell it would do more harm than good. He'd been everything in her world then— everything good at least—and as her eyes fluttered shut, she remembered the way he'd held her as they'd danced to the static-filled music on the wizarding wireless. His hand had rested firmly at her hip and he'd guided her around the room, spinning her until she was breathless and had forgotten that it was cold and she was hungry and the boy she'd fancied had left her.

"What are you reading?"

Hermione's eyes snapped open and she looked up to see Neville peering down at her. She felt her cheeks grow warm as she remembered the last time he'd spoken to her.

She cleared her throat, looking down at the open book on her lap. "Caudill's _Magical Theory_."

Neville smiled and took the seat opposite her on the sofa. "I've read that. Found it a bit dry for my tastes. I like a narrative, even in my nonfiction."

"It is a little dense," Hermione agreed. "But the meat of it is fascinating. Not a favourite, though." She smiled back at Neville. "Have you read _Magical Herbs and Fungi That Kill_?"

"Have I ever. I've a copy here and another at Gran's."

"Now that's a good book."

Neville agreed and then glanced over her shoulder. His grin widened.

"You ready yet?" he asked.

Hermione turned in her seat to see Ron approaching, a new looking Cannons jersey on and his broom over his shoulders.

"Almost. Thought I'd invite Lavender to come watch."

Hermione had to fight to keep her eyes from rolling.

"Going flying?" she asked, and Ron's mouth twitched at the corner.

"Nah. Just sweeping out the alcoves. You haven't seen her, have you?"

Neville saved her from answering. "I just saw her in the library. Her and Parvati were working on something for Trelawney, I think."

Ron's nose wrinkled. "Ah, maybe best not to disturb then."

"What are you doing looking for Lavender, anyhow?" Hermione asked, curious now. "I thought you and Parvati had a date?"

Ron grimaced. "We did," he said. "Took her to Madam Puddifoot's two days ago."

Hermione waited but Ron didn't expand on the comment.

"And?" she prompted at last. On the other side of her, Neville chuckled and she glanced at him. "What happened?"

"Yeah, Ron, what happened?" asked Nevile teasingly.

Ron sighed and sat on the coffee table in front of the both of them, leaning forward and letting his broom clatter to the floor. "It went alright at first," he said. "We ordered tea and some cakes and she was going on about some band she's mad for. The food was good, and she was wearing a nice dress so her tits looked—"

"Ron!" Hermione cried.

His ears turned red but he only shrugged. "Anyway, it was nice, and even if the conversation wasn't groundbreaking, I thought it was going well." He paused and Neville motioned for him to go on, his own eyes twinkling with amusement. "Then Lavender walked in."

"Oh God," said Hermione. She could imagine what happened next and even though she had very little patience for Ron's need to be adored by women, she could sympathise.

"Yeah," said Ron. "Lavender was with Seamus and Dean. Well, they were with each other and she was tagging along. She spotted us before we spotted her and just sort of . . . I dunno what to call it."

"What? What did she do?" asked Hermione.

"Wailed? I dunno, it was very loud. Then Parvati stood up and slammed her hand on the table and tea went everywhere and they started shouting at each other."

"Right there in the middle of the shop?"

Ron's ears had gone an even brighter shade of red. "Yeah. Everyone was staring. It was bloody awkward."

"What were they saying?" Hermione urged. She'd been privy to a great many Lav-vati fights in her time, and the things the girls said to one another were often so outrageous they were actually amusing.

"Hell if I could tell," said Ron, "Their voices were so bloody high and they were shrieking over one another the whole time. But then, just before Madam Puddifoot herself comes out, they start sobbing."

This too was a part of the girls' process and Hermione nodded in understanding.

"Anyway, in another second they were running at each other, and I thought they were going to start scratching one another's eyes out or pulling hair or something—"

"Got excited there, did you?" Neville teased.

Ron flipped two fingers in reply and went on. "And then they just started _hugging_ , and crying all over each other."

"What did you do?" Hermione asked. She had usually taken the opportunity to disappear behind the curtains of her four-poster or off to the library.

Ron shrugged. "Ate my cakes. What the hell else could I do?"

She and Neville both burst into laughter, and it felt so _good_. She laughed until she cried and clutched at her side, picturing Ron eating tea cakes while his date and their shared ex-girlfriend cried very loudly and very publicly at one another.

"Be here all week," said Ron under his breath, looking embarrassed now, and Hermione reached out to pat him on the knee.

Having caught her breath, she spoke again. "So how did all _that_ lead to you wanting Lavender to watch you fly?"

The red, which _had_ been confined to Ron's ears, spread to his cheeks, obscuring his freckles as he bit his lower lip and smiled.

"Well, she may have said something along the lines of 'Parvati you cow, you're only seeing him to hurt me.' Or something like that. Hard to tell with the tears. But then when they'd finished they _both_ came over and we finished our tea. Then Parvati left with Seamus and Dean and Lav and I got to talking."

Hermione waited for the familiar, jealous feeling to bloom in her gut at the mention of Ron and Lavender alone together, but it never came. Thank Merlin.

"And?" she prompted.

Ron's grin widened. "And I reckon I've got some work to do if she's going to agree to go to the Yule Ball with me this year. She always did like seeing me fly. Said I looked fit doing it." He reached for his broom again. "You seen Harry?"

At the mention of his name, Hermione felt her pulse quicken. "No," she said, and then forced a smile. "Maybe Neville has?"

"Yeah," said Neville, "He's in the Library too, actually. Looked a bit out of sorts."

"He's always out of sorts lately. Don't take it too personally if he breaks your nose," said Ron, standing and putting his broom over his shoulder again. "I'm off to find him. You coming, Hermione?"

She thought about it for perhaps too long and then shook her head. "You boys enjoy." Harry had made it perfectly clear he didn't want her company, and she wasn't going to force it on him.

"I'll be here when you get back, mate," said Neville.

Ron left and Hermione looked back down at her book, feeling Neville's eyes on her again. It wasn't uncomfortable exactly, she'd gotten used to being stared at since the end of the war, but she could tell he was worried about her, and she hated that.

"You want to come out and fly with us?" he asked before long.

Hermione laughed. "You do remember me flying fifth year, don't you?"

Neville chuckled and leant toward her, elbows on his knees. She didn't move other than to look at him.

"Everything okay?"

"Lovely, why?"

He looked uncomfortable for several seconds before he screwed up his Gryffindor courage and spoke. "You seem out of sorts lately too."

She could feel her smile tighten and her breathing shallow.

"It's just been . . . " _Awful. Nerve-wracking. Terrifying._ "Different, since the end of the war."

And then Neville nodded, his brows furrowing. "I heard about your parents," he said.

Hermione gasped before she could stop herself and Neville winced.

"I get if you don't want to talk about it—believe me, I understand better than anyone—but if you find you _do_ want to talk about it, I've got a mind healer who specializes in this sort of trauma. I see her once a week during holidays and I could owl her for you if you—"

"Neville?" Her throat was tight and her eyes were stinging as she looked down at the book on her lap again. "Thank you, but I'm fine."

He didn't say another word, just sat there staring at her while she studiously avoided his gaze.

Across the room, the portrait hole swung open and she heard male voices filter in. It only took a moment for her to pick out Harry's.

"I'll run up and grab it," he was saying.

Hermione took three deep breaths before looking up, and when she did, it was to find her eyes meeting Harry's as he stared at her from across the room. He was frowning, his scar dipping down with his brow as he ran a hand up and through his hair. He looked agitated.

But then his gaze snapped away from hers and he was darting through the eighth year's corridor entrance and to his room.

Harry was definitely avoiding her.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry was avoiding her.

He couldn't help it.

There had been the occasional dream over the years, a few side glances when she started to develop, and then there were even a few nights during the Horcrux hunt when he looked over at her, the only other person in that tent with him, and thought there might have been something more. But nothing like this. Nothing like the dark fantasies running through his head now. He had no idea how to talk to her without her figuring out his secret.

But the more days that went by with awkward avoiding glances and too-casual greetings in the Common Room and during meals, the more the tension in his shoulders stabbed like a needle through his muscles. Not to mention the way his magic still built up inside of him. He'd always felt that strange tingle at the tips of his fingers, but there had never been a reason not to let it out. Every year as his magic had grown, the trouble with Voldemort had grown as well. There had been trolls to fight, traps to avoid, werewolves to evade, and Death Eaters to battle. There had always been some enemy to unleash his magic on.

But now his enemy was dead.

And Harry still felt the tension.

The longer avoiding Hermione went on, the worse it became. His insomnia felt endless, and when he _was_ able to finally drift off, he awoke startled, torn out of another nightmare with flashes of green light, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, the smell of Fiendfyre, and the sound of screaming.

In the pitch black of his room, Harry tossed and turned, his eyelids heavy as sleep tried to take him. Even dozing off, he could feel the sweat above his brow cooling on his skin, the damp patches on his chest making his shirt cling to him; it was suffocating.

When he finally let himself fall asleep, he could see it all over again: the war.

Mismatched events all taking place at the same time.

He could feel Nagini's fangs sinking into his skin in Godric's Hollow. The old house that belonged to Bathilda Bagshot was replaced by the Lovegood home, the sound of taunting Death Eaters speedily rushing toward him. Ron wasn't there, and Harry felt that same sinking in his gut over the feeling of abandonment. Rain poured down from the ceiling, making him shiver in the cold as he wrestled with the snake. Every sound echoed in his ears, but none stronger than Hermione's screams coming from somewhere above him—somewhere he couldn't reach her.

He knew this nightmare. He'd had it multiple times before. Soon he would be able to feel the Fiendfyre licking at his heels, followed by the red stare of Voldemort's narrowed eyes and the shocking green light heading right toward him.

"No!" Harry shouted, waking himself in a start and falling off his bed in the process.

He reached for his wand, casting a Lumos so bright that it caused spots to appear each time he blinked. His shirt was soaking wet, his heart was racing, and it took several moments for him to even remember where he was.

Safe. At Hogwarts.

Harry's hands still shook as he stood, trying to get his bearings. Grabbing his glasses, he quietly inspected his room, paranoid in the silence. Despite knowing he was logically safe, Harry couldn't shake off the panic in his chest or the way it felt like he was struggling to breathe.

Grabbing his Cloak from the nearby chair, he tossed it over himself and slipped out the door quietly, extinguishing the light from his wand in the process.

None of the doors had locks on them, and few students bothered to cast charms now that the war was over, so sneaking into Ron's room was easy enough. He could hear his friend snoring from beyond the four-poster curtains, but Harry still pulled them back so he could see with his own eyes that his friend was alive.

Letting out the smallest sigh of relief, he hesitated as he closed Ron's door, knowing that what he wanted to do was check on Hermione. Biting his lip nervously, Harry made the decision and headed down the corridor. He had his Cloak and could be quiet enough not to wake her. She would never need to know.

The walk to her room felt longer than ever; his legs were dead weight, dragging him down with each step.

He put his hand on the doorknob, taking in a quiet breath before opening it and poking his head inside.

She slept silently, something that had often freaked him out when they were on the run. There had been more nights than he could count when he'd quietly watched to make sure she was breathing.

Stepping ever closer, he pulled the Cloak from his face and sighed in relief as he watched her chest rise up and down.

He knew he should have felt relief, but instead, it felt like he'd been in the deepest parts of the Black Lake and forced to come up too quickly. Each exhale shook as it left his parted lips, and he was certain that his hands were completely numb. Blinking rapidly, he tried like hell to prevent tears from falling, but the sweat that had dripped down from his forehead stung his eyes and made them water up against his will.

"Harry?" Her voice thick with sleep and tinged with concern.

Startled by the sound of it, his instinct was to grab the Cloak and run, but his hands wouldn't move. The rest of the Cloak fell from his body and his knees gave out, sending him to the floor at the side of her bed. His hands regained function enough to grip her bed sheets tightly, using the leverage to keep his head up.

"Harry!" she cried, sitting up so quickly he could barely track the movement, and reaching for him. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

Her touch was like warm water running over his back after being out in the freezing cold. He shook his head rapidly, face pressed against her mattress. "I'm fine. I'm fine," he said over and over again until he choked on the words and sobbed, "I'm not fine, Hermione."

She wrapped one arm around his shoulder as her other ran through his hair, and she leant down to press her face right beside his.

"Harry, what happened?" Her voice was soft, as if she were trying not to startle him, and the hand in his hair stilled on the back of his head.

He removed his glasses and wiped his face against her sheets, trying to remove at least some evidence that he'd been crying. Letting out a heavy breath, Harry whispered, "I needed to know that you were alive."

He heard the sharp intake of her breath and felt the arm around his shoulder pull him closer. "I'm fine," she said. "Perfectly fine. Did you . . . Was it a dream?"

"I know. I know. I'm sorry," he said, ignoring her question. "I just needed to—I needed to see for myself."

She loosened her grip on him enough to pull backwards, and then she was looking at him, her eyes wide and shining in the moonlight filtering in through the window at his back.

"You don't need to apologize for worrying about me. Never. After what we—" she paused and swallowed. "After last year, I spend at least half my time worrying about you, too."

With what strength he could manage, he stood up halfway and crawled in beside her the way they had on the small cot in the tent they'd shared on the run. Wrapping an arm around her and holding her close, he sighed and tried to concentrate on the feel of her heart beating against his forearm, now tucked between them.

Silence took hold of the room as he finally began to breathe steadily.

Swallowing hard, Harry eventually whispered, "Do you remember the Forest of Dean? After escaping Godric's Hollow?"

"Yes." He could feel her lips moving against his jaw as she answered.

He closed his eyes, remembering the brightness of the snow that following morning. How everything had looked clean and beautiful, and he couldn't actually believe that somewhere else in the country, Voldemort even existed. "You said that we should stay there and grow old."

"I did." She pressed against him more fully, and her tight curls brushed against his cheeks.

Taking another moment to enjoy the warmth of her next to him, Harry slowly pulled away enough to look into her eyes. He frowned, brushing her hair back from her face, letting his fingers trail gently over the skin of her neck to feel the raised scar left behind by Bellatrix's dagger. He stroked the mark several times, still hearing her screams echo in his head.

"Sometimes I wish that we'd stayed there."

She looked sombre, but there was a small quirk at the corner of her lips, and she, reached up with one warm hand to cup his cheek before she spoke.

"Me too."

Staring at the scar—one of many that the war had left behind on her—Harry knew two things: one, he would never in his life doubt her bravery or loyalty, two, he could never let her be hurt again. Eyes drawn to her increasing breaths, he glimpsed as the moonlight emphasised the beautiful silhouette of her body. He felt the tingles of his magic in his fingers again, followed by the same strange urge he'd had in that empty classroom, the two of them covered in paint.

And suddenly, he looked back at the scar—a moment in time when she could have been taken from this world, from him, and he felt the panic rising once more. Nearly jumping from her embrace, Harry stood, facing away from her as he bent down to retrieve his cloak and wand.

"I shouldn't have woken you."

"What? Harry, where are you going?" She sounded bewildered.

Her words cut him like a knife. They sounded as if she had expected him to stay. His heart beat so hard in his chest that it made his stomach clench tightly. "Class in the morning. We should get some sleep," he choked out, rushing to the entrance and throwing it open before disappearing only to hear her shout behind him as he closed the door.

"Wait!"

* * *

"You can't keep doing this." She had managed to corner him in the dungeons the next day after Potions, standing in the classroom entrance and blocking the exit he seemed to be eyeing.

She watched as Harry blinked rapidly, looking around the room as though hoping an escape would appear somewhere else. "Going to class?"

Hermione nearly growled in frustration. "Avoiding me. Running off whenever I so much as look in your direction."

Several students passed by the doorway, pausing to look at them. Harry gave them his fake "pose for the camera, Mr Potter" smile which dropped the very second that they turned the other way. "I don't know what you're talking about, Hermione. I've got to go to Charms."

" _That_ is what I'm talking about! Right there!" She wanted to smack him but settled for prodding him in the chest instead. He looked down, his eyes narrowing in obvious irritation. "You keep making excuses every time we get within five feet of one another and disappearing before I have a chance to say anything."

"Can you try to keep it down?" he said through clenched teeth, looking over her shoulder to make sure the other students were long gone. Hermione looked as well and, seeing no one, turned back to Harry. "The last thing either of us needs is . . . I don't need people thinking there's something wrong with me, okay? And I'm not avoiding you. We're within five feet right now, aren't we?"

"Yes." Hermione clenched her hands at her sides, her stomach tying itself in knots as she tried not to take his evasiveness personally. "We are. And you're counting the seconds until you can walk through that door." She crossed her arms and tried to keep the tightness in her chest at bay.

He did look at the door longingly then but turned that exact same expression on her in another heartbeat. His hands were shaking, his shoulders tense. His chest rose up and down quickly with each breath as he focused his gaze on her face. "Hermione . . . I—"

"You left last night," she interrupted, the words feeling as if they had burst out of her. "You just left. You came in and you looked so . . . " She didn't want to think about how broken he'd seemed, collapsing by her bed with the same wild-eyed expression she herself experienced all too often. "And then you climbed up next to me in bed, like we used to—" Her voice cracked, and Harry looked absolutely tortured with every word that came out of her mouth. She looked at the wall. "Then you left."

"Hermione," he whispered, drawing her attention. His eyes met hers, as though he were silently begging her to stop. He shook his head, jaw clenched as he gazed down. "You know I had to leave. This isn't like last year. Last year we were . . . It was war, and we were alone, and no one would . . ." He shut his eyes tightly, letting out a heavy exhale through his nose. "It's different."

"It didn't seem any different last night." She was whispering now, and she glanced behind her again to make sure they were alone. "I know you don't like to think about it, but it all happened. We _changed_. Everything changed. The whole bloody world. And we can't go back to—You can't keep avoiding me. You're all—" she gasped, her heart racing in her chest, her words coming out clipped now. Merlin, she felt like she couldn't breathe.

Alone in the doorway, Harry closed the distance between them, one hand cupping the back of her head gently, the other settling on the small of her waist. When he spoke, so quietly, it was as if they were sharing a breath. "I know it's all changed. I just . . . didn't expect it to. Not . . . Not this. Not you."

"I'm not—" she was still struggling for breath, but she forced herself to continue, forced herself past the hurt that had settled beneath her breastbone, the ache in the pit of her stomach. "I'm no different." _Lie_.

He licked his lips and looked down, as though something heavy weighed on his mind. When his eyes turned back up to meet hers, very subtly, very slowly, the hand at the back of her head tightened into a fist, taking a handful of hair with it and tugging ever so slightly. Harry slowly inhaled, an obviously focused breath. "Everything . . . is different. _I'm_ different. And I put this on you."

"No—" she started, but the hand in her hair pulled gently and she fell silent.

"Leave it alone," he whispered, his tone softer but still demanding. "It's not you. I need space, and you're going to give it to me."

The first thing she realised, with his hand still threaded through her hair and his eyes boring into hers, was that she could breathe again. The weight on her chest, the one that had been threatening to crush her, was gone, and her whole body relaxed in his grip. She said nothing, just nodded once, her hair straining at her scalp where he held it as she did. The second thing she noticed was that she wanted him to tighten the fist, to tug just a bit _harder_.

"Good," Harry said, releasing her hair and rubbing at the base of her neck. He gave a soft smile before blinking rapidly and looking around, eyes slightly panicked as though the moment had all just rushed in on him at once. "I . . . I have class." He stepped away from her instantly, shifting his bookbag and bolting through the exit.

Hermione stood by the door, her mouth agape and her scalp still tingling as he went. Damn him. And damn her. She was vibrating, her breaths even as she watched him disappear, and she took a single step backward until she was leant against the wall.

On the one hand, she was happy to see that he wasn't just asking for what he needed but demanding it. On the other hand, however . . . It hurt that what he needed was to be away from her, that her whole body hummed to be near him again and his cried for distance.

She blinked, looking up at the ceiling as her eyes stung and she tried to force the unpleasant prickling away.

It didn't matter, not really. Harry was an adult and she was an adult, and they were friends, nothing more. Yes, she loved him, and _yes_ , she had thought that their time together during the war had brought them closer . . . but she also knew that keeping his distance from her was, in all likelihood, for the best. She wasn't the sort of person that made caring about her easy. If her parents shattered minds hadn't been proof enough that she was a dangerous person to love, she'd have no further to look than the night before.

She'd clung to Harry like a bloody infant, and when he'd realized what was happening—when he'd recovered from whatever dream had sent him into a panic—he'd bolted. He'd known that encouraging her dependence on him could only hurt them both.

It was for the best. Maybe Ron had been right about what Harry needed after all. Maybe he really did need some _one_ and not some _thing_.

And maybe that person wasn't Hermione.

She dabbed at the corner of one eye and shook her head, pulling her tight curls up into a quick bun and securing it with her wand. She didn't want to feel the tingling where his hand had tugged anymore.

Honestly, how could it be her? If Harry needed someone to snog, someone to care about romantically who cared about him in return, maybe the best thing she could do for him was to give up on her foolish, doomed list, and let him be to find that person on his own.

She hefted her bag up onto her shoulder and stood straighter.

Yes, that sounded right. She would leave him alone and stop pushing so bloody hard. She'd give him space as he'd asked—as he'd demanded—and when he was ready, when he'd found someone well suited to give him what he needed, things could be normal again.

But as she walked through the classroom door and into the deserted hallway, a small, distressed voice in the back of her head cried.

_Why can't you be the one? You were the one in the tent. You were the one he needed to see in the dead of night. It's you he pushes up against walls and gives looks that melt your insides._

"Don't go there," she said aloud, just as she passed a fourth year Slytherin rushing down the corridor.

The girl glared at her and hissed, "I can do what I want, Granger. You're not my mum."

Hermione watched the girl go and bit her lip.

Right. Now she looked like she'd gone mad.

Maybe she had.

Perfect.

* * *

Hermione spent the rest of the day trying to give Harry the space he'd asked for. She studiously avoided looking at him during their afternoon class and skipped dinner entirely so as to not make things any more awkward for either of them. She barricaded herself in an abandoned classroom when the rest of her schoolmates started heading toward their common rooms, and there she revised relentlessly until she could barely remember her own name, let alone Harry's.

It wasn't until she heard footsteps on the flagstones outside the classroom door that she realized it was past curfew. She checked her watch. The prefects would be on second rounds now.

Sighing, she packed up her supplies, sliding them into her bookbag and slinging it over one shoulder. She lingered by the door until the footsteps faded, and when they were gone, she opened the door and slipped through into the hall, disillusioning herself as she went.

The walk up to Gryffindor Tower took longer than necessary. She passed Mr Filch once and two different prefects before she came to the portrait hole.

"Devil's Snare," she whispered.

The Fat Lady gave a harrumph and swung open, admitting her.

Finding the common room empty, Hermione removed the disillusionment charm and made her way silently down the eighth year corridor. She passed an open door on the way and paused beside it.

"Still awake?" she asked as Ron looked up from the parchment he'd been scribbling on.

"You're back late," he said.

Hermione shrugged, loosening her tie and tugging it off over her head before stuffing it into the pocket of her pleated skirt.

"We missed you at dinner." We. She tried hard not to think about who that implied had _also_ missed her. She was leaving him alone, no matter how much she wanted to ask after him.

"Had an essay to write."

"Get it done?"

She smiled and nodded, patting her bag. "Safe and sound."

"Right. See you at breakfast then?"

Her smile tightened as she replied. "Yes. See you there."

It took her thirty seconds and two turns to reach her door after that, and as she did, her shoulders sagged with relief. She opened it, eager to be alone again, and dropped her bag by the door before reaching down with both hands to grasp the bottom of her shirt. She felt grimy, having spent so long in an unused and undusted room, and didn't even bother to unbutton the shirt before she tugged it up and over her head, tossing it toward the empty chair she kept beneath the window.

"Stop! Stop!"

The Cloak of Invisibility dropped from the chair, taking her shirt to the floor with it. Harry stood there instead, eyes drawn to the ceiling as he bent forward, hand feeling around on the ground in search of her shirt. When he grasped it in his fist, he launched it toward her without looking, accidentally sending it farther than intended. It flew through the still-open door and into the hallway.

"Sorry! I came to say I was sorry! I didn't mean to . . . And I didn't see anything!"

"What—" Her heart started racing the moment she heard his voice, and as she stared at him, she tried to decide whether it was with excitement or anger. "What the hell are you doing here?" Anger it was.

Harry cringed, closing his eyes which were still drawn upward. "I was an arsehole. I _have_ been avoiding you," he admitted, his voice thick with embarrassment. "I meant to apologise at dinner but you weren't there, and you weren't in the Common Room, so I thought I'd just . . . wait." He casually gestured with one hand at the chair beside him. "I must've fallen asleep until you . . ." He gestured at her with the same hand.

Unbelievable. He was bloody unbelievable.

"You wanted to apologize, so you waited in my room under the Invisibility Cloak not twelve hours after you told me that you, and I am quoting here, Harry, 'need space,' and that I was to 'give it to you?'" She wanted to hex him. She'd spent the whole bloody day avoiding him because he'd told her to, and now he was here, waiting for her with an apology because he was just the sort of man to make that sort of gesture, and she was in her bra with her scars on display and supposed to just accept the apology? She drew her wand from the knot of her hair for good measure, letting it dangle between her fingers at her side.

He groaned in plain frustration, shifting on his feet back and forth. "Yes, and I said I was an arsehole, Hermione. Can you please put your shirt back on?" he pleaded. "This position is starting to hurt my neck."

"No, I will _not_ put my shirt back on. _You_ threw it into the bloody hallway." She could summon it if she wanted, but she found she was quite enjoying watching him squirm at the moment. After the day she'd had, how hungry she was. She thought he rather deserved it.

He paused in exasperated silence. "You can't put on another one? You only own _one_ shirt?"

Hermione, feeling incredibly contrary now, closed the door behind her with a wave of her wand and walked across the room, passing right by Harry as she made her way to the dresser by her bed. She opened the shirt drawer just to make a point and then slammed it shut.

"Nope," she said, popping the 'p' as she turned back to face him, leaning up against the drawers as she did so. "Nothing striking my fancy right now."

Clenching his fists tightly, Harry growled under his breath. "You can't just . . . walk around in nothing, Hermione." He kept his gaze up at the ceiling as he began slowly walking toward the door, using his feet to mark out a path, occasionally knocking his toes into the feet of her bed or the corner of a desk.

" _Colloportus_." She set her wand on the dresser behind her when she was done, crossing her arms beneath her chest.

Harry stopped moving entirely at the spell. "Hermione."

"Hmm?"

He cleared his throat. "Are you dressed yet?"

She thought about lying, just to see if his eyes would flash when he saw that she wasn't, if he'd narrow his gaze at her and the tension he carried with him would melt away.

"No," she said instead. "But if you think I'm going to let you run off again after you've ambushed me, you are sorely mistaken."

He sighed heavily, lowering his head but keeping his eyes closed. "Can you please put a shirt on? I don't want to . . ."

"To what? See me? Look at me in the same state of undress you saw me in oh, a hundred times or more when we were living in a fucking tent together?" She was angry, she could feel her skin flushing with it. She didn't care. He'd told her he was different, that _she_ was different, but right now, she felt just as furious as she had a thousand times before.

"It's not the same thing, Hermione! This is Hogwarts, not a tent in the middle of a forest. Put on a shirt!" He looked agitated and a part of her wanted to soothe him, but the louder part, the one that stood stubbornly waiting for him to open his eyes, told her it wasn't time for that. Not yet. Not here in her bedroom where she felt more in control.

"I won't."

His brow furrowed in obvious displeasure, and he carefully, but quickly, found the path back toward the chair where he reached down to collect his cloak. However, he did not draw it up over himself. Instead, he opened his eyes long enough to settle on her face and placement in the room and then threw the cloak right at her chest.

"Do as your told."

She caught the cloak out of the air and stared down at it, bemused. It took only a second more for her to drop it, and another second after that for her to start walking across the room toward Harry. His mouth fell open as she approached, his eyes no longer skyward, and she stopped a foot from him, when she was sure he could tell she hadn't, in fact, done as she'd been told.

"Or what?"

Gaze drawn down to her breasts, Harry groaned out a pained, "Oh God," before taking in a breath, collapsing into the chair behind him, regaining what little composure he had left, and returning his attention to her face. "I'll leave."

As if she were following some instinct she hadn't known existed in her, Hermione dropped to her knees in front of him. She settled her hands on his thighs, feeling how still he went beneath her touch, feeling the warmth of him through the cloth of his trousers.

"Please don't do that," she said. She felt some of the anger she'd bottled up seep out of her. Her hands relaxed on his legs and she stroked down to his knees and back up again. "Harry?"

He didn't respond, but his eyes were on her, sparking hot as she looked up at him, and that was enough. Without hesitating, she moved, pulling herself up and leaning toward him, settling herself onto his lap and tracing a hand over his cheek. The stubble there was rough against her palm and the feel of it against her skin went straight down to her toes.

"If you want me to stop, you should probably say something," she said.

There was a part of her that worried he would tell her she shouldn't, that he would order her off of his lap and back across the room to put a shirt on again—and God help her, she knew she would obey him if that were the case—but he only watched her. And it felt right, so bloody right, so she leant in until she could feel his breath against her lips until she could feel the warmth of him right there against her.

She closed the distance, and somewhere in the back of her stunned mind, a piece of her rejoiced.


	5. Chapter 5

He'd had a plan.

After getting lectured by McGonagall for his attitude, getting told off by Ginny for his general existence, and getting sternly talked to by Ron for, as he put it, "Getting Hermione in a strop", Harry had been determined to set things right. Whatever was wrong with him needed to be put aside for the sake of seven years of friendship. If a troll, a war, a Dark Lord, and Umbridge couldn't ruin them, Harry sure as hell wasn't going to let the weird shit in his head lately do the job.

But after _he_ had stopped avoiding Hermione, _she_ had started.

So he had a plan.

Use the cloak to sneak into her room and then just wait. Simple enough.

Then his plan went to fucking shit all thanks to a goddamned shirt.

Now Hermione was in her bra and in his lap and asking him questions that went right over his head. If he were being honest, he couldn't hear a word she said. His blood was pumping so loudly in his ears, he was certain he would pass out any moment. But then she leant in close, touched the hair on his jaw, and all the blood in his ears swiftly went elsewhere.

The second that her lips brushed against his, the magic at the tips of his fingers pulsed like the beating heart of a raging fire.

Her hands were gentle against his cheeks, but _his_ were firm as they ran down her sides, moving over the curves of her hips, pushing aside the pleated skirt she still wore to roughly grab the outside of her thighs and tug her even closer to him.

He returned her kiss with passionate fervour, shaking with need for her, terrified and thrilled all at once at how absolutely sublime she tasted when she parted her lips, allowing him to touch his tongue against hers.

Like a potion, one sip was enough to take effect.

Harry moved his hands up her thighs and around, gripping her arse as he rose from the chair, and pushed her back against the nearest wall. He groaned into her mouth when her legs wrapped tight around his waist.

Using the wall for leverage, Harry moved his hands back up to her waist, over her ribs—allowing his thumbs to barely brush the underside of her bra—before he grabbed one of her hands in each of his. With a firm slam, he pinned her wrists to the wall above her head, relishing the little noises she made against his mouth as he finally pulled away from her, breathing hard.

Her eyelids were heavy. She looked dazed, even a little drunk, and Harry understood. He felt like someone had slipped him something. "I told you . . ." he managed to whisper through an attempt to catch his breath. "I told you to put on a fucking shirt."

The faraway look in her eyes receded for just a moment as her mouth quirked up at the corner. He felt her fingers stroke against the backs of his hands where they'd pinned her wrists to the wall.

"Sorry," she said, and she was grinning by the time the word was completely out.

"Liar," Harry accused, pressing his lips to the curve of her jaw, following the line down her neck until he could feel the scar there against his tongue. Hermione whimpered, a small, _needy_ sort of sound.

He continued to kiss along her throat and to the side, grazing his teeth over the strap of her bra as he released one of her hands, needing his own. Hermione let her wrist fall, her fingers threading tightly through his hair like reins. Wrapping his free arm around her waist, Harry adjusted her in his grip, not wanting her to fall. Her body moved against his, and the dark feelings he'd been concealing from her for weeks suddenly pressed against her, causing him to groan.

"Mmm, Harry," she moaned.

Tugging at her bra with his teeth until her shoulder was completely bare, Harry pressed firm kisses to her skin, elated at the sound of his name passing her lips that way. He never knew he'd _needed_ to hear her say his name like that, like she was exhaling it from deep within her.

Ever the polite and reciprocal man that he was, Harry moaned, "Hermione."

Hermione.

Wait.

_Hermione?!_

"Shit!"

Harry stepped back from the wall, holding onto her only long enough so that she didn't fall on her arse, but the second he saw her feet touch the ground, he let go of her as though she were fire—hot and burning him.

Oh fuck fuck _fuck_!

Harry gripped his hair with both hands, unable to look her in the eyes. His gaze, still drawn to her magnificent breasts wrapped tightly in black, was making it all the worse as he scolded himself inside his own head.

"What—? What's wrong?" She sounded dazed again, and she looked at him expectantly as if she wanted _him_ to answer all her questions, clear up all the things she didn't understand.

He began pacing back and forth in the room, his attention drawn to the floor now with the occasional glimpse back up at her. "Oh god, this is so . . . I am so fucked up. Hermione, I'm so sorry."

She slumped back against the wall and continued to stare at him, breathing heavily, looking bewildered. "Harry?"

Looking up at her, he shook his head. "I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't have come here. I . . ." He looked at her exposed skin again, his mouth watering like a Pavlovian response. "You don't understand."

And then she was moving again, looking like a newborn thestral as she tested weight on her legs before coming toward him. "What don't I understand?" She reached for him, and Harry tried to step away from her, almost tripping over the cloak on the floor in the process.

"No, stop," he pleaded, continually shaking his head. Finally, to keep her from doing anything more, he gripped her arms tight and held her still. "You don't understand what I . . ." His hands shook, his heart pounded in his chest, and he licked his lips before darkly whispering, "You don't understand the kind of things that I . . . that I've been _dreaming_ about doing to you lately."

He saw something spark in the depths of her brown eyes as she registered what he had said, and to his horror, it wasn't fear at all.

"No," Harry muttered, releasing her quickly, retrieving his cloak and darting for the door. He remembered at the last second that she had locked it, and he flung a silent Alohamora at the entrance, springing the door open and allowing him passage through.

His quick steps turned into a full sprint down the corridor, almost hitting the wall as he nearly missed the curve in the hallway. He needed to be sequestered in his room for the night. Hell, maybe for the year. He absolutely could not be near people. Near _her_.

Nearly leaping through the entrance to his private chambers, Harry hadn't even noticed that the door was open.

"Ah!" he screamed, spotting Ron lounging on his bed, a magazine in hand.

"Ah!" Ron yelped back. "Why are you screaming at me?"

"Why are you in my room?"

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Why are you in my room!?"

"Why's your hair all funny?"

"Get out!"

Ron made no move to leave, quirking a brow instead at the state of Harry.

Glancing at the nearby full-length mirror, Harry understood why. His hair, a usual mess, was now quite obviously tousled, his shirt was wrinkled, and his lips were a little puffy. "Fuck."

Snorting from the bed, Ron asked, " _Did_ you?"

Collapsing on the bed, Harry screamed into the mattress in absolute frustration.

"Hmm," Ron muttered thoughtfully, crossing his legs and reopening his magazine. "I'm going to assume no. Unless you're really bad at it."

Harry screamed again.

* * *

Hermione didn't know how long she stood there for, her head spinning, her mind trying to grasp what the hell had just happened. It could have been seconds or minutes or bloody hours. All she knew, once she was capable of thought again, was one thing.

He'd left her. Again.

Merlin. What had she done wrong? She had thought he _wanted_ to kiss her. She'd been drawn to him like a giant bloody magnet. And then he'd snogged her senseless, snogged her hard up against a wall until she was moaning and trembling and wanting very much to be wearing even less than she already was.

And then he'd gone.

She must have done something to drive him off. She tried to run the entire scene through her mind again but it was all so pleasantly hazy and she didn't want to disturb what had felt like a perfect moment in time.

Where had he gone?

She couldn't believe he'd done it again; just left her standing alone in the middle of a fucking room, ready to weep. _Harry_ wasn't the one who left! He'd _never_ been that man. He was the one who _stayed_ , who held her while she was crying and cared for her when she was past the point of wanting to care for herself.

But he'd fled.

Fled like a goddamned coward.

She barely felt her body as she moved to the door, her heart pounding in her ears. She didn't notice the cool air against her skin as she opened that door and stepped into the hallway. The feel of the shirt she grabbed off the floor and hastily buttoned over herself barely registered as she made her way down the barren hall.

She didn't feel a thing until she was outside of an open door, staring into a room where Harry lay face down on the bed.

Then, she felt absolutely _livid_.

"Harry. James. Potter!"

"Ah!" Ron screamed.

She only realized he was there beside Harry when she heard his shout echo off of the walls as she strode into the room.

Though she couldn't see his face, Harry's entire body cringed at the sound of her voice, and he pulled the invisibility cloak over his head and shoulders, leaving the rest of his body exposed.

Hermione gritted her teeth.

Ron looked between the two and chuckled. "Oh! Finally."

"Excuse me?" she snapped, turning her glare on the ginger prat. "What are you even doing here?"

Holding up the magazine, Ron muttered, "Was reading before he came in having a nervous breakdown." He glanced up and down and smirked at Hermione. "Your buttons are done up wrong, by the way."

Hermione gasped and looked down to check. Sure enough, he was right. She'd even missed a button in the middle. She thought she would feel embarrassed, but instead, all she felt was furious.

"Never thought of you owning a black bra, 'Mione."

Harry's arm reached out from beneath the invisibility cloak, looking almost completely separated from any body as it moved and punched Ron in the leg.

"Ow! What? We're all friends here." Ron cleared his throat and hid behind the magazine. "Some more fuh-riend-ly than others."

"You just—" Hermione sputtered. "You keep your bloody eyes off of my bloody bra. And _you_!" She rounded on Harry, walking right up to him where she could see his headless body laying beside Ron. "How dare you?" She ripped the cloak off of his head and shoulders and threw it violently to the side. "How _dare_ you!?"

Harry rolled over and narrowed his eyes up at her. "This can wait." He looked at Ron and then back to Hermione. "It's a private conversation."

Ron snorted and scooted off of the bed. "Well, don't mind me, I'll just be on my way." He side-stepped Hermione so as not to physically come into contact with her rage. "'Mione, Harry, glad that the two of you finally figured out . . ." He waved his hand at them "Whatever this is."

"Piss off," said Hermione, who was sure there was steam coming out of her ears now to accompany the bloody ringing that had been plaguing her since Harry had abandoned her shirtless and snogged half to . . . well . . . in the middle of her bedroom.

Ron chuckled and left through the door, closing it behind him firmly and leaving Hermione and Harry completely alone.

"And what do you have to say for yourself?" Hermione could hear how shrill her voice was, but she didn't give a damn. He had _left_ her. _Again_!

Harry took a breath and sat up, placing his hands on his knees as his legs hung over the side of the bed. "You should have put your shirt back on in the first place. Then I wouldn't have . . ." He rounded on her, looking up from his seat. " _Why_ did you kiss me, Hermione?"

She gaped at him. "Why did I—? You arse! It isn't as if you didn't kiss me back!"

In fact, he'd done a sight more than kiss her. And then he had left. Arsehole.

He stood, frowning, his brows pulled together. "Of _course_ I kissed you back! I've been wanting to—" He cleared his throat and looked down, and Hermione's pulse quickened. Any more of that and she'd be in danger of a heart attack. "You need to stop. Stop trying to push me or bloody fix me. After everything you've done, for me, for _everyone_ , you deserve more than . . . this." He gestured at himself with obvious disinterest.

If it had been any other day, any other situation, her instinct would have been to comfort him, to tell him that there wasn't any 'more than him' on offer anywhere in the world because he was wonderful and dashing and the best man she knew. Unfortunately for Harry, she was not in the mood for stroking his ego.

" _That's_ what you think? That I snogged you because I was trying to _fix_ you?"

He shrugged. " _Haven't_ you been? With the running and painting and such? When have you _ever_ wanted to go running, Hermione? And when have you ever wanted to snog me before . . . this?"

She wanted to hit him.

"I'm not trying to fix you," she said, practically hissing now. "I'm trying to help you because you've been tense and getting into fights and acting a great big hulking brat!"

"I'm not—"

"No! You don't get to interrupt me after you've accused me of snogging you as some sort of sordid strategy to _fix_ you! I kissed you because I _wanted_ to! Because the way you look at me makes me want to crawl up on your lap and let you snog me senseless! Because every time you give me that look—" Harry narrowed his eyes, "Yes! _That_ look, right there! Every time you do, I feel like the only thing I want in the world is for you to put your bloody hands on me."

She was breathing hard and could feel herself trembling, feel her eyes beginning to sting again.

_Fuck._

Harry scrubbed his hands down his face, shaking his head. "You don't know what you're saying. You don't want my hands on you, Hermione. You know there's something wrong with me. I used to think it was the Horcrux," he quietly admitted. "It's why Ginny and I . . . Why we couldn't work. Because I didn't want to do something I couldn't take back—Except I _did_ want to. And I thought all along it was Voldemort, but it's just _me._ " His green eyes finally once again met her gaze, and he looked completely torn up. "I'm trying to protect you from _me_."

And what could she say to that? That she didn't _want_ to be protected from him? That every time he raised his voice and told her what to do her pulse quickened not out of fear, but arousal?

"Well, I don't want you to protect me anymore," she said at last when she could finally think straight.

He sighed, clearly irritated and impatient. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Fuck you. I know exactly what I'm saying." She was breathing hard again and took a step toward him, her whole body vibrating with anger and something else she couldn't name.

His eyes widened at the insult, his magic flaring visibly around him like a flash of fire.

"Fuck you?" Harry questioned, his tone low. "Is that what you just said to me? Fuck you? Because _you_ know more about what's going on here than I do?"

He left a moment of silence between them.

"Answer me."

Hermione cleared her throat, ignoring the flash of heat which had gone straight from his mouth to the now throbbing spot between her thighs.

"Yes," she practically whispered.

Harry stepped closer to her, his height giving him an advantage as he came in on her like she was his prey. "Fuck you?" he repeated again, staring into her eyes like he was daring her to do something. "That's exactly the point, Hermione. _You_ are the most important person in my life," he said, his tone softening. "My best friend. And lately . . ." He exhaled, looking her up and down. His eyes trailing over her made her whole body shiver. "Things are different. But I still want you safe. And I wouldn't be safe."

He touched her chin with the tip of his index finger, making her look up at him.

"Because," he said very slowly, very quietly, and swallowing hard in between words, "I want . . . to fuck you."

She could barely think, barely breathe. Her world had narrowed to Harry and the throbbing that was radiating over her entire body. All she could think was 'yes, please, that sounds very nice indeed,' but the part of her that was still sane understood that saying it would terrify him in ways neither of them could begin to understand.

She needed a moment, needed to breathe, needed to _think_ for a single goddamned second, but all there was was Harry, standing there with his fingers still hot against her chin, sizzling with magic that coated him like a second skin and made her want to kiss him again, made her want to feel the crackling of that magic on her lips and her teeth and her tongue.

And she realised as his fingers tightened just a bit on her face and his thumb trailed over her mouth, that she didn't give a single fuck about fixing him or giving him an outlet or getting him to stop punching people. _She_ wanted this, wanted him touching her with those hands and looking at her with those eyes and kissing her with those glorious lips that made her forget her own name and the very real ways she had managed to fuck up her own life completely, because all she needed was to feel him against her. The weight of him, the _strength_ of him.

"It makes sense," she heard herself say, and she tried to keep her voice low . . . placating . . . submissive.

Harry blinked, clearly surprised by her reaction. "What?"

She swallowed, and the small movement made his thumb drag against her lips. "I said, it makes sense. We're both adults. We both care about one another . . . " She let her voice trail off as she studied the set of his jaw before reaching up and stroking it. "We've both been through a lot together." Shifting herself toward him, she pushed up onto her toes, putting her lips as near his ear as she could manage, one hand on his shoulder to help her up.

"It makes sense we'd both want to fuck each other."

Harry groaned, his hands making their way to her hips and squeezing.

"You're still not getting it," he said quietly, pulling away just enough to look into her eyes. His grip on her tightened, and her breath grew shallower, faster. " _You_ wouldn't be fucking _me_. That's where Ginny and I . . . didn't mesh," he said, cringing slightly. "She wanted to be in control. She wanted to do shit that constantly put herself at risk, and she never listened to a goddamned thing I . . . I don't want to lose you like I lost her. You're more important to me."

She could see it, see all of it so clearly now. See the way he needed to know his loved ones were safe, see the way he needed to control the chaos which threatened. She bit her lip.

"I'll listen," she said. And she meant it, Merlin did she mean it. She wanted nothing more than to do as she was told, to have Harry care about _her_ that way, to give him what he needed.

He looked like he was trying not to roll his eyes at her. "You haven't been listening _lately_. It's made me want to . . ." He trailed off, swallowing down the rest of his words.

"Made you want to what?" Was that her heart or his she felt thumping against her chest?

He took a breath, gently running his fingers over her hips until he found the hem of her shirt, untucked, and was able to stroke a soft line of skin there. "Punish you."

Her eyes widened, and perhaps it was that the line he was tracing against her hip made it impossible to think clearly, but his words didn't scare her . . . they excited her.

She laid her head against his shoulder, feeling his pulse against her cheek as she panted, her chest heaving against his. The fingers on her skin stilled.

"All right," she said before she could begin to think it through. She didn't _want_ to think now anyway, she only wanted to keep this feeling buzzing through her, to feel him warm and steady against her. He was luminous like this, and she wanted to bask in him.

"I think I . . . I think that sounds nice." She didn't hear herself, not really. If she had, she might have wondered what had come over her. No, all she heard was Harry, his heart thudding, his breath catching.

When she braved a glance back up at him, Harry looked positively dumbstruck.

"What . . .?" He cleared his throat loudly, hooking his fingers into the edge of her skirt. "What do we tell Ron?"

She smiled, triumphant and giddy and so damned happy.

"We don't have to tell him anything."

Harry laughed, letting go of her skirt and running his hands through his hair. "Hermione, after the way he left, he's going to make assumptions. And neither of us are very good at keeping secrets, least of all from him."

She frowned—perhaps she pouted—but she didn't want to think about Ron right now.

"Let him assume. Let _everyone_ assume. Our business is ours. And right now . . . " she let her voice trail off, let herself look up to meet his gaze from beneath her lashes. "Well, now I'd really like to not worry about anyone else. Anyone aside from you."

He licked his lips and looked thoughtful for a moment before muttering, "You know, you're getting awful bossy there."

Hermione's teeth sank into her lower lip, hard and sharp and her breaths became shallow, audible.

"Sorry," she said quickly, looking down. And to her surprise, she _was_ sorry.

Smiling, Harry leant down and whispered in her ear, "I'm sure we'll find a way for you to make up for it."


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione woke the next morning with the biggest, stupidest smile of her life.

The smile followed her as she dressed, remembering the feel of his hands on her hips, his fingers trailing over bare skin. It remained as she brushed her teeth and washed and braided her hair over one shoulder. It even stubbornly persisted when she recalled the way he'd ordered her to her room the night before, kissing her gently at each corner of her mouth and telling her that if she wanted to be _good_ , she would get as much rest as possible and meet him in the common room the next morning before breakfast.

And then, when she entered the common room to see Harry lounging there, his whole body relaxed from his jaw to his shoulders to his hands, her smile turned into a full-on grin.

She probably looked like a loon, not that she could bring herself to care when Harry was sprawled across an armchair like that, returning her grin in a way she hadn't seen in months.

"What are you two so happy about?" came an annoyed voice from beside her. Hermione looked over to see Parvati yawning and hefting her bag up over one shoulder. "It's bloody seven in the morning. The sun's barely up. What is there to be smiling about?"

Parvati didn't wait for a reply before she pushed her way past Hermione, heading for the portrait hole and grumbling as she went.

"Lovely," said Hermione when she had gone, and then turned back to Harry, who was still looking languorous where he sat, one ankle over his knee as he watched her.

"Good night's sleep?" he asked.

Hermione flushed, her cheeks and the skin at her throat growing warm. She nodded.

He practically jumped up from the sofa, a smile painted on his face as he slowly made his way to her. "Hope you had good dreams." Grabbing his bookbag, he slung it over one shoulder, still grinning. Many other men might have looked smug, all things considered, but Harry simply looked . . . happy.

She watched him as he made his way across the common room, moving with easy grace. The confidence which had seemed brash during the weeks and months before was now just the consequence of a man who was completely at ease in his own skin, completely relaxed for the first time in ages. She followed him out of the Common Room and down to breakfast and felt as if she were floating the whole way. It wasn't until they found the Gryffindor table and sat down side by side that she was drawn back to earth.

"Morning, you two." Ron sat across from them between Neville and Ginny, and the way he was waggling his eyebrows at her made Heriome think of Fred.

"Morning," she said, and then forced herself to look away from him. "Neville, Ginny. How are you two?"

Neville, who was mid-yawn, shrugged. "Herbology this morning. Could be worse."

Hermione peered at Ginny, feeling a sharp jab of misplaced guilt somewhere in her midsection as she did so. She had to remind herself that she had nothing to feel guilty _for_. Ginny and Harry hadn't been an item in more than a year, and Ginny had had at least three significant others since then. Besides, she and Harry were adults. It was perfectly acceptable for them to—

Her mind went blank.

There, just above her knee, where the skirt rode up and exposed bare skin, she felt a hand settle. The palm was warm and several of the fingers calloused as they stroked gently, moving barely an inch, as if they were trying to get her attention.

She tried her best to peer stealthily at Harry, and, seeing his grin, her heart did a funny sort of flip in her chest.

"—Slughorn's sent out invitations to another slug-club meeting, by the way. It's a pre-Yule Ball dinner." Hermione, who had missed the first part of Ginny's answer, looked up.

"He's started those again?" asked Neville, reaching for a piece of toast and dropping it on his plate.

On her knee, Harry's hand turned palm up, an invitation. Her breath catching, she tried to slip her own hand beneath the table unnoticed to settle in his. Aside from the callouses, the skin of Harry's palm was decidedly smooth, and as he twined his fingers in hers she bit her lip to keep from smiling too wide. She didn't want to draw attention.

"Well," Ron said after swallowing a bite of eggs, "thank Merlin I don't have to go since Slughorn still doesn't even know who I am." His gaze landed on Harry and Hermione. "I assume the two of you are going?" He left a heavy pause before grinning. "Together?"

Quiet filled their section of the table as though someone had cast a bubble around the group, encasing them in their own little world—complete with Silencing Charm. All eyes turned to the two of them. Ron looked overly pleased with himself. Neville seemed a bit confused. Ginny laughed.

"I fucking knew it," she said, snorting into her glass of pumpkin juice.

Hermione, heart racing, tried to pull her hand back, but Harry's grip on her only tightened.

Harry rolled his eyes at Ginny. "You don't know a thing."

The redhead smirked at the pair of them. "Oh please, this makes so much sense. Hopefully, you'll be less of a wanker now."

Narrowing his eyes at his ex, Harry declared, "I have not been a—"

Ginny gave him an incredulous look.

"I already apologised for punching your . . . whatever he is."

"Was," Ginny declared. "He was fit, and then he was just boring. And don't change the subject, Potter. When did _this_ happen?" she asked, gesturing back and forth at Harry and Hermione with her fork before stabbing it into a sausage.

"When did what happen?" Neville asked.

"Last night," Ron answered, smiling.

"Nothing happened," Harry lied.

Ron and Ginny snorted in tandem.

Hermione focused on her plate to keep from slowly melting into a puddle of highly charged embarrassment at the attention.

Neville stared at Harry and Hermione for a long moment before his eyes widened. "Oh. Oh!"

Hermione cleared her throat. "Anyone started on Professor Barebones' essay?"

Ron and Ginny stared at her and then burst into laughter. Even Harry chuckled a bit under his breath, though he gave her hand another gentle squeeze when he did.

Breakfast went smoothly after that, and by the end, Hermione and Harry were the only two of their group left at the table. He hadn't released her hand during the entire meal, and eating one-handed had slowed the both of them down. As she finally set her fork aside, Hermione glanced at him from beneath her lashes.

She had wondered whether having this _thing_ between them analyzed by their friends would affect him, but the only thing she noted now was the looseness in his arms as he ate, and the way he glanced up as Zacharias Smith waltzed past without clenching his jaw.

Finishing his glass of juice, Harry smiled at her. "I think that went well."

"Yes," she replied, "Apart from the misunderstanding of it all." She had known that Ron would assume the relationship between her and Harry was more . . . official than it actually was. She'd told Harry last night she didn't care, but a small part of her objected to the lie—not because she cared what Ron or Ginny or Neville thought about them, but because, while she loved that he wasn't winding up to fight someone now, she worried that distracting himself with her would limit him in ways he didn't understand yet.

"Misunderstanding?" Harry asked, brow raised.

She blushed. "They assumed we were . . . dating. Boyfriend and girlfriend."

Blinking, Harry's mouth fell open, the smile fading just a tad. "Oh. Yeah, that," he said, nodding. "Well . . . I guess let them think what they want? Right?"

His hand in hers had stilled and there was a note in his voice she couldn't quite place. "Yeah," she said lamely, feeling sick to her stomach.

Clearing his throat, Harry pushed his plate away with his free hand. "What matters is that we know what's going on. Don't we?"

"Absolutely. This is . . ." she searched for a word. Merlin, why couldn't she _think_? "It's what we both want." And then, because she was feeling uncertain now, she added, "Right?"

Looking distracted, Harry took a moment before nodding again. "Right. I mean, exactly that. We both want this just the way it is. Right? I mean, we didn't really . . . y'know, talk about what we're doing. We just sorta . . ." He trailed off, shrugging his shoulders. "Yeah."

Hermione felt her chest starting to tighten again and looked away from him, reaching for a goblet of water and drinking half of it before she glanced back in his direction.

"Did you— Was talking about it something you wanted to do?"

"No, no." Harry shook his head, answering quickly. Hermione felt the tightness in her chest squeeze into a fist, crushing her for a moment. "I mean, we'll talk when we need to. I know this is about . . . me, and all. I just don't want you to feel, I dunno, stuck with me. Dealing with all of," he gestured around his head, "this."

"No!" she said at once. Did he really believe that? Did he think she was only doing this because of . . . whatever it was happening with him? Did he assume she didn't want him? Need his touch just as badly as she could sense he needed hers. Or . . . someones?

"Because I don't want you to do anything you don't want to, Hermione," he said, slowly letting go of her hand. "You know that I can't lose you. Not ever."

"Harry," she felt like she was choking on her words and her heart wouldn't stop thumping in her chest. She took hold of his hand again and gripped hard, her nails biting into flesh. "I don't want you to think—"

"Attention, students!"

Hermione jumped.

At the head's table, one of the teachers had stood, magically magnifying their voice for all to hear. "Classes will begin in five minutes, and those of you loitering behind ought to be on your way."

She looked back at Harry, her mind going blank with the roiling panic in her gut, climbing and trying to claw its way up her chest.

Harry stood, using their intertwined fingers to help Hermione to her feet. "Well, let's get to class."

And she followed him because her brain wasn't working properly and she was worried she'd done something wrong and she was a great bloody idiot. It wasn't until they were ten steps from the classroom door that she realized his shoulders had gone unnaturally tight again.

Her heart gave a twinge.

Well, at least that was one thing she knew she could fix.

* * *

The pain in his shoulders had returned right after breakfast, and a sinking feeling in his gut stayed there well through the first two classes. It wasn't until Charms when he sat beside Hermione that the tension began to ease up again. While they hadn't held hands again, she did do little things to get his attention. Casually leaning over to "borrow" a quill, and letting her hair brush up against his throat and jaw, placing her hand on his forearm to get his attention, and occasionally turning to whisper in his ear.

He'd been thrilled when she hadn't done a thing to correct Ron and Ginny at breakfast, but the conversation they'd had in private after their friends had gone had left him feeling confused and uneasy. Still, the way she brushed up against him every so often had him breathing easier. He couldn't place the scent of the shampoo she used, all he knew was that it was like breathing in a Calming Draught. When she turned the other way to speak to Dean sitting on the other side, Harry glanced at the intricate plait of her hair, unable to stop himself from imagining wrapping it around his fist.

Ginny had hated having her hair pulled during sex. In fact, she'd go out of her way to pull _his_ , and the whole thing would turn into some strange wrestling match that Harry hated. She had made it very clear that she was competitive, even in the bedroom, and so if Harry had ever wanted to actually fuck her, he'd had to give in and let her win. A few times, the loss had been enough to leave him flaccid, eventually blaming stress.

But _Hermione_. . .

When he'd tightened his grip in her hair, she'd relented, tilting her lovely neck back and blinking up at him with long lashes and a dazed expression.

He let out a loud exhale, shifting in his chair and unwillingly drawing her attention.

She glanced over, giving him a smile and taking a slip of paper out of the little notebook she seemed to carry everywhere with her. She wrote precisely, in a little line that ended with correct punctuation and her name. She slipped it sideways across the long table, setting it in front of him as she looked up and _winked_.

Blinking down at the scrap, he admired her penmanship for a split second before the words registered in his head.

_Thought we might revise later tonight? In the library. Just the two of us? Hermione._

Just the two of them?

And she'd winked.

Licking his lips, he took the paper and folded it, slipping it into the pocket of his trousers. While his hand was beneath the table, he reached over, casually placing his palm on her thigh.

The almost smirking look she'd been giving him faded in an instant, and then she was just staring at him, eyes wide as pensieves and her mouth slightly parted. She looked . . . expectant.

He grinned as an idea took root in his mind. She wanted to revise later in the library? Well, she was going to get _exactly_ what she wanted.

* * *

So early in the term, few students frequented the library. Most first years got in and out as quickly as possible, preferring to read and revise in the dorms or common rooms. The elder students, who had upcoming OWLs and NEWTs to look forward to, didn't generally take up residence there until the month before their exams.

That left most of the tables free, save for a few in the front of the room near the Charms section taken up by a handful of fourth years.

Harry had led Hermione toward the back near the Restricted Section, which they were now free to roam without signed permission slips. They settled at a table just at the entrance of the section, near the books on dark creatures.

She had smiled at him, that same look of anticipation she'd carried with her the whole day, and Harry did his best to ignore her, grabbing a few Defence books and setting them on the table.

"Right," he said, taking a seat. "Let's get started on Barebone's essay."

" _Professor_ Barebone, Harry." The correction sounded automatic, and Harry glanced at her, lifting a single incredulous brow. Without saying another word, he tapped the book in front of her in silent command to start reading.

Hermione bit her lip, not looking the slightest bit remorseful as she followed his instructions, sulking openly all the while.

He flipped open his book to the page he knew he _needed_ to read, but as his eyes skimmed over the words, all he could think about were terrible things he wanted to do. He remembered the way the lacy strap of her bra had felt in his mouth and secretly wondered how hard it would be to rip with his teeth. The fabric was thin enough he supposed he could fashion it into some sort of binding. He could already imagine how pretty her feet would look all tied up to a post on his bed, the lace leaving delicate little imprints in her dark skin.

"Harry?"

"Yes?" he replied, doing his level best to pretend he'd been focusing on his homework.

Her voice was quiet as she spoke again, almost nervous. "There was a book I thought we could look at. In the restricted section . . . Would you like to go help me find it?"

He glanced over at her, his gaze filled with speculation. "Is it for homework?"

She bit her lip. "Well, no. Not strictly speaking."

Running his tongue over his teeth, he smiled softly. "Is it necessary right now?"

He watched as her hopeful smile faded into a recalcitrant pout, all the while wondering how she'd feel if he bit that protruding lip. "No."

"We have an essay due," he said, tapping the book again. "Be good and do your reading."

Hermione huffed, but nodded, looking back down at the book splayed open on the table in front of her. The obedience lasted for about three minutes. Soon, she was glancing up at him every ten seconds or so, her gaze darting back to her book when she realized he had noticed.

Her compliance was intoxicating. So was her disobedience.

Harry remembered years of being ordered around by her to revise and read and write, and he now wondered if that had been something leading him up to his current fantasies about inflicting the same sort of torture on her. Ginny would have just told him to go fuck himself.

She lasted another ten minutes before she broke, sighing heavily and leaning back in her seat. She stared at him, but Harry kept his gaze trained carefully on his book. "It's warm in here," she said after another few seconds, and then she loosened her tie, pulling it up over her head and tossing it onto the table in front of them before starting on the buttons of her blouse.

She took it down three buttons worth, leaving it gaping open over the tops of her breasts and fanning herself for another few moments before she started to unbraid her hair and pull it up to the top of her head with both hands.

Harry stared at the tie on the table. He knew the Hogwarts ties were long enough to be used as a gag. He and Seamus had tried to tie one around Ron's mouth once to stop him from snoring. It hadn't worked. Using his peripheral vision, he glimpsed at her open blouse, a part of him furious at the thought that anyone could walk back and see her in such disarray; well, disarray for Hermione Granger.

Turning in his seat, he set his focus on her, leaning his elbow on the table and drumming his fingers on the open book. "What are you doing?"

She blushed, and the rosy glow on her cheeks was enough to make him want to throw her over his lap.

"Nothing," she said, and she seemed a little uncertain now, a little hesitant. _Good_. "It's just . . ." her voice trailed off as she watched his expression. "Warm?"

Licking his lips in thought, he reached forward, taking hold of her seat, grabbing the chair just so that his fingers grazed the inside of her thigh. He pulled it close to him so that they were face to face. Her lips parted, and Harry leant forward, placing a soft kiss to her mouth.

"You're distracting me," he finally whispered, before turning back to his book and leaving her there, breathless.

It took her nearly a full minute to recover. Harry knew because he kept the time while he waited for her response. When she finally gave a small, distressed whimper and leant back over her book, he reached over, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You need to concentrate, Hermione. I'm told that revising is very important."

She nodded, and he could just see her biting her lower lip through the curtain of her hair between them.

"It's just—" she began, but then shook her head. "Never mind. I'll read."

" _Can_ you?" Harry asked, hiding his grin. "You seem awfully distracted. Something on your mind?"

She huffed, sweeping her hair up again and securing it with a tie she kept around her wrist before looking at him. "I'm perfectly fine," she said after a beat, and then scooted her chair closer to the table and glared down at the text.

He let several more minutes go by, all the while never reading a word of his own book, wondering if she was retaining any of hers. Eventually, he closed his text, glancing over at the page she was on and taking note of something at the top. Closing her book for her, Harry asked, "What year did the first Goblin Rebellion take place in Scotland?"

"I— I don't know," she said in a rush, and she looked flustered.

He nodded, letting out a heavy sigh. "That's what I thought. You're not focused, and you're distracting me." He withdrew his wand, glancing around the room before throwing up a very obvious Notice-Me-Not, thanking Merlin that Madam Pince was at the front of the library—she would have spotted the charm work immediately. "What should we do about that?"

Her eyes widened but then she started to smile shyly.

"I have a few ideas," she answered, and then she leant backward in her chair, straining the last decent button of her top and spreading her knees a few subtle inches.

Harry grinned, wishing he could use a time-turner to go back and inform a younger Hermione that one day she would possess such confidence in herself. "I bet you do," he said, reaching forward and taking her hand. "But those will have to wait. Come sit." He patted his lap with his free hand.

"On—" she swallowed, glancing around them and spotting one of the fourth years passing by just beyond the charm he had cast. "On your lap?"

"They can't see us."

He could tell the idea was new for her, exciting and perhaps a bit intimidating as well, and then she finally nodded and stood, taking a quick step toward him and sitting gingerly onto his lap with the bottoms of her bare thighs over the tops of his clad ones.

Once settled, he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her tight up against his chest and letting her relax. A simple adjustment from him, and the fullness of his desire for her pressed upward. He did his very best not to make a sound, though he treasured the groan that wanted to break free from his chest at the pressure.

Hermione, however, was not so subtle. She _moaned_ as she leant her back against him, allowing her head to drop onto his shoulder and giving him a clear view down the front of her.

With the top buttons undone on her blouse, it was easy for him to tug at the sleeves, exposing her skin. Harry placed a kiss in the crook of her neck, letting his fingertips dance lightly up and down the top of her shoulder as she shivered. "Is it strange?" he asked. "That I never imagined you'd be this soft?"

"Hmm?" And whether she hadn't heard or hadn't understood, the feel of the sound vibrating against him through her back was delicious.

Testing the waters, he placed his hands on her hips for leverage, pushing the hardness in his trousers up against her again at the same time as he scraped his teeth on her exposed neck. She gasped softly and he felt her squirm on his lap, her thighs spreading as she tried to slip one leg down between his.

"Stop moving," he instructed, running his hands down her thighs from their place on her hips until they settled at the tops of her knees. She stilled completely beneath his touch.

He wondered where his own confidence had come from. It wasn't more than a few years ago he'd been terrified of kissing Cho. Maybe Ginny had brought this out in him, he wasn't sure. Perhaps it was finally getting rid of Voldemort and feeling free for the first time in his life. All he knew now was that wherever this had come from, Hermione was responding to it—egging him on further.

"Do you have . . ." he whispered, slowly pressing his palms down on the inside of her knees, spreading her legs in front of him as he continued to rub himself from beneath her. "Do you have any idea how distracting you are for me?" His fingers lightly touched her knees, never moving higher despite the inviting position of her thighs.

She didn't answer, and he nipped at the lobe of her ear, catching it between his teeth for a moment.

"Do you?" he repeated.

Her breath caught and she shook her head. "No, Harry."

The sound of his name on her lips briefly brought him back to that morning. She was still Hermione, his best friend. Hermione who did not want an actual relationship. He needed to tread carefully, despite how badly he wanted to absolutely ruin her for other men. Keeping his tone even to prevent her from noticing that he'd briefly gone away, Harry asked, "Is this too much? Or do you want more?"

"Oh God," she gasped, "More. _Please_."

Her words had him swallowing down the building saliva in his mouth. "Good," he whispered. "Stand up for me."

He didn't think she had ever followed directions so quickly before in her life, because in the next moment she was on her feet, her whole body trembling as she stood beside him, just _waiting_ for him to tell her what to do next.

"Sit down in your chair and look at me."

She did as she was told, her eyes slightly glazed again as her chest rose and fell in perfect time and her whole body seemed to glow with the heat of her.

Harry leant forward, cupping her jaw with his hand and letting his lips hover over hers so that he could feel how frantically she was breathing. Drinking her in like water, he smiled. "Now sit there and do your bloody essay." And with that, he turned back in his chair and reopened his book.

He could tell as he waited for her to comply that she struggled to come back to herself, but once his words had registered, she didn't protest or mess about with her clothes or fidget with her hair. She just obeyed.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as she sank down into her chair, her breathing even and steady as she pulled her own book toward herself and rested her elbows on the table.

"Yes, Harry," she breathed, as she opened the text.

Smirking, Harry glanced at her with a proud feeling in his chest. "Hey, Hermione?"

She tilted her head sideways, propping her cheek on her hand as she looked at him, her dark eyes wide and just the slightest bit unfocused.

"Your book is upside down."


	7. Chapter 7

She finished the thrice-damned essay in half the time it would have taken her on a normal day, and though it was also probably half the quality she would normally have produced, she knew it would still earn her a passing grade.

Setting her quill down, she looked hopefully at Harry. He had spent _his_ time reading, and when he looked up at her, he seemed completely unphased by the hour it had taken her to write Professor Barebone's essay.

"All finished?" he asked.

Hermione nodded, trying not to let her apprehension show . . . but she'd always been shite at hiding her emotions.

Harry raised a single, questioning brow.

"May I?" He held out his hand for her essay, and for several horrifying moments, Hermione thought he meant to read it.

Still, he had asked, so she lifted it off of the table and handed it to him. He didn't even look at it, just folded it in half with those hands that had driven her completely wild only an hour ago, and tucked it into the front pocket of her book bag for her.

"Anything else you wanted to work on?" The little twitch at the corner of his mouth told her that he was amused. _The arse._

"No," she said, slamming the book on the table shut and shaking her head. "All done."

"Good." His chest rumbled on the word, and when she met his gaze again it was hot enough to scorch.

She bit her lip.

"Can we . . .?" She didn't know how to ask for what she wanted, didn't know what words to use. She was uncertain and adrift and _needing_ , and she hated it.

"Yes," he answered, not bothering to wait for her to finish the question before he was packing away their books and hefting both their bags over his shoulder. He didn't even flinch at the weight of it, just held a hand out towards her and gave her that same demanding look she'd quickly grown accustomed to.

"Let's go."

She placed her hand in his and let him lead her out of the library, watching as he ended the privacy charm he'd set and dragged her past the fourth years, past the front desk, and out through the corridor.

They moved along together at an incredible pace, and by the time they reached the fourth floor, Hermione was out of breath, her heart racing as her legs slowed. Merlin, even the week of jogging together hadn't done anything to improve her endurance.

Harry must have sensed her flagging, because soon he was slowing himself, stopping in the middle of the hall to look back at her. "All right?"

"Yes. Just took the stairs a bit fast."

Harry's eyes flicked down to her legs, and she felt the heat rising in her cheeks as that gaze lingered before darting down the hallway and back to her.

"I'd hoped we could make it to my room," he murmured, his face splitting into a wide grin, "but this works too." And then he was pulling her by the hand again, down the corridor and into an alcove that housed a wide statue she'd seen before but never really stopped to look at. She certainly didn't have the time now, either, because in another moment Harry had tucked them both behind the thing and had her pressed up against the wall so that they could both fit.

His body was hot and hard against hers, and she bit her lip at the sensation to keep from moaning aloud. They were in _public_ , and this time there was no carefully cast charm to protect them from prying eyes. She didn't know why the thought excited her, but hot lust settled in her belly as she looked up at last to meet Harry's eyes.

"None of that," he said, reaching up to run his thumb over the lower lip she'd trapped between her teeth. "Tell me what you're thinking right now."

Her head was full of him, and she was having trouble thinking at all, but she could tell that Harry expected an answer, so she said the first thing that came to mind.

"I want you to kiss me," she breathed.

Gone was the previous smug grin on his face, replaced by an excited smile. "That, I can definitely do."

His lips crashed down over hers, and she revelled in it. At last. _At last_! She'd been waiting for so long, just on the knife's edge of anticipation as he'd teased her, kept her wanting this more than she wanted to read or write or take her next bloody breath. And now? Now he was kissing her, his mouth hot as his tongue swept forward, tracing the seam of her lips until she allowed him entrance and then plunging inside with a fervour she could feel matched in her desire for him.

It was unbelievable how much she wanted him, wanted every touch and word and look he was willing to give her. It was almost startling how much she craved every inch of him, because how could he want her in the same way? She was Hermione Granger. Plain with frizzy hair and more ambition than was good for her. She wasn't the sort of woman men lusted after, she never had been.

In their fourth year when rumours of an affair between them had circulated thanks to Rita Skeeter and her mendacious brand of journalism, no one who knew her well had taken the allegations seriously. They had known what Hermione knew, deep inside: She wasn't the sort of girl people fell in love with. She wasn't the sort of girl that was desired. There had been Viktor, of course, but he hadn't _known_ her then, and once he had, they'd become friends and nothing more.

But now, as Harry's arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her up onto the tips of her toes, drinking her in all the while, she felt the very real, very hard, very _large_ evidence that he did, in fact, desire her, pressed between them. It sent a spark through her, electrifying them both as she moaned against his tongue and dug her fingers into his back.

She needed his kiss like she needed his hands on her—wholeheartedly, _desperately_. Her whole body was pulsing with it, throbbing all over and making the most sensitive parts of her tight with longing.

Above her, Harry growled. The sound reverberated against her lips as he pulled back, his gaze glittering as he looked down at her.

"Hands up," he demanded, and the order gave her a thrill she couldn't name. She released her grip on the back of his robes and raised her arms up over her head. He watched her for several moments, his mouth tilting up at one corner as he leant back in and trailed small kisses over her cheek to her ear. "You're so soft."

His hands tangled with hers, pressing them up over her head as he continued to drop kisses from the lobe of her ear, down her neck. They were light at first, like the brush of a butterfly's wing, and Hermione let out a sharp exhale. It tickled, and she squirmed away, breathless with laughter she couldn't help until Harry met her gaze.

"What is it?" he asked, and she could tell by the intensity of his gaze that he really wanted to know, that he might even _need_ to know.

"Ticklish," she breathed. "Too soft."

He let out an exhale that sounded like a sigh of relief. "You're perfect."

When he kissed her again it wasn't gently. His mouth was firm against her neck, his lips parted slightly as he began to suck and nibble at the sensitive skin. This time, far from making her laugh, the sensation stole her breath away. Each drag of his lips, swipe of his tongue, and firm graze of his teeth made her quiver, made her want to moan.

And then she _did_ moan. Harry released her hands and moved lower, his nipping kisses trailing down to her collar bone as he pushed aside the blouse she'd unbuttoned earlier in the evening, baring her shoulder to him.

She felt another button give way and glanced down in time to see the whole thing gape open over her breasts, exposing the simple white cotton of her bra over the smooth brown of her skin. Harry's gaze didn't move an inch from the curves until he'd looked his fill, and once he had, he leant down to drop twin kisses on the flesh which rose in generous swells above the white cotton.

He let out a satisfied groan, inhaling deep with his nose set in her cleavage, running his forehead against the skin of her throat and up until she could feel his beard softly rubbing against her jaw. She shivered at the sensation.

"I never thought you'd be this responsive," Harry whispered, pausing to look into her eyes as his lips hovered over hers. His tone shifted slightly, less that sexy demanding one she'd already grown to expect, and more of the friend she had known for the better part of a decade. "Is it real?"

She couldn't help herself after that, she leant forward, kissing his mouth and wrapping her arms around his neck as she felt his hands on the backs of her thighs. He hoisted her up so that her legs were on either side of his hips, and she could feel his arousal pressed hard against her own pulsing heat.

"Fuck," she said when he pinned her back against the wall and she felt his hips give a single hard thrust against her.

"Merlin, I hope it's real," Harry said, groaning at the contact between them.

"Please, please!" She was babbling now and she didn't care, because there was nothing soft about the way Harry touched her, about his mouth dragging across her skin. He worked his way down to her neck again, sucking and biting and making her pant so hard she thought she might start to sob. It was so good, so bloody good she couldn't think straight, couldn't _see_ straight. All she could feel was him and the cool wall against the back of her thighs again as he dropped her legs and let her slide down against it. Her skirt was caught at the waist behind her but she didn't care.

And then the world was shifting and she felt Harry moving in front of her, his hands on her hips as he sank down to his knees and looked up at her like she was a fucking goddess.

He didn't say anything as he used both hands to take her by the ankles and widen her stance, didn't need to ask permission as he started running those same hands up the backs of her legs, pausing only when he reached the backs of her knees.

"Do you know how fucking distracting these legs have been?" he asked her mildly, his expression one of almost annoyed arousal.

Hermione laughed before she could help herself and then pressed the back of her hand over her mouth, eyes wide as his gaze shot to her face.

His stare lingered as though he were waiting for an answer, and when she gave none, he placed a kiss to the inside of her knee, earning a whimpering sound that was audible even with her mouth covered. His hands slowly, but firmly, drifted upward, his gaze reconnecting with hers.

"I don't want to ruin us," he said. "But there's so much I want . . . God, Hermione." He exhaled again, sounding like he was desperately holding something back. His fingers edged up, the tips tracing the edge of her knickers. He stared at her, watching, waiting, monitoring her every reaction. She watched as he took in a breath, letting it out at the same time as his thumb brushed against the damp centre of her knickers.

"Let me know if I go too far," Harry whispered. "Please."

Hermione nodded so fast it made her dizzy, her pulse racing as she watched his mouth and then his green, green eyes as they flicked back down to his task.

"God," he muttered, "You have to let me know," he said again, sounding as breathless as she felt. "I wanted, I thought about going slow, but . . ."

When his lips kissed the same spot he'd just stroked, Hermione felt her knees give way. Startled, she cried out as she fell, but Harry had her before she hit the ground, easing her down until her bottom was on the stone floor, her back to the wall, and her legs on either side of his as he leant back against the stone statue which had stood guarding them.

"Are you okay?" he asked, the sudden picture of concern.

Perhaps it was that she was lightheaded from holding her breath so often as he'd touched her, but she felt herself begin to laugh, felt it bubble up out of her as she took in Harry's mussed hair and his tie which was all askew.

"I'm perfect," she breathed, leaning her head back against the wall as her hair clung to her skin, still slightly damp with his kisses.

He smiled, letting out a soft chuckle of his own before pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Maybe slower would be best." He licked his lips and grinned at her. "For right now." Before she had a chance to object, Harry clarified, "Tonight, at least."

And perhaps he had a point, her head was still swimming a little and her heart was galloping in her chest.

She let him do up her buttons and straighten her skirt once she was on her feet, loving the way he looked at her as he did it. His caring shown in his eyes, in the determined set of his jaw as he took her by the hand and led her from the alcove.

They made their way up the seventh floor together, only letting go of one another's hands when the portrait hole swung forward and the sound of their housemates filtered out into the hall.

It was jarring, Hermione thought, coming back to earth after what she and Harry had just shared. As he allowed her to precede him into the room, though, his hand on the small of her back grounded her in a way she hadn't known she needed, but meant the whole world to her in that moment.

Later, after Harry had left her at her bedroom door with a single chaste kiss and an order to sleep well, Hermione stripped and climbed into her bed. Her fingers traced the path his hands had taken on her thighs, swirled in patterns that thrilled her until at last she came to the place where he had pressed his lips to soft flesh.

She shuddered at the memory, and then she let her fingers drift to places Harry had left unexplored, let them stroke and stoke the burning desire he'd kindled in her until she was all breathless gasps and quiet moans, hoping to God she could get him alone again soon.

* * *

Their time in the alcove had not been revisited in the weeks that followed. Harry was determined to take things slower considering Hermione's reaction. He had fully intended on starting that way, but running with her through the corridors had been exhilarating. It made him think that his years at Hogwarts should have always been like that: carefree.

Still, he worried about pushing too far too quickly. Hermione had been very clear about what they were doing. She did not want a real relationship. They were adults who had needs, and both could clearly easily help one another with those needs. Harry, of course, needed some sort of outlet for the pent up magic and energy bubbling inside of him, hell-bent on release no matter how. What Hermione needed . . . Well, he wasn't quite sure. Maybe she felt the same as he did, like the years at Hogwarts had been too consumed with war and survival and she was now eager to find joy in the hallowed halls. If that was the case, Harry was more than happy to oblige.

At the tables for meals and in classrooms, he did little other than tease her. A gentle hand on her thigh, running his fingers over the open palm of her hand, a firm press to her lower back while guiding her through open doorways. Little things to remind her that he was there. Little looks of pure wanton desire when no one else was looking to remind her of what he wanted: her.

Back in the dorm rooms was a different story.

When prying eyes were nowhere in sight and they were left to their own devices, Harry rubbed her shoulders and trailed kisses along her spine as she did her homework. When she read books in bed, he placed himself between her thighs, lavishing them with kisses and small bite marks that left her gasping, but never moving higher. Even when she begged.

And she begged.

Often.

Her pleas for mercy were a driving force in everything he did. Caught up in the heady desire of their extracurricular activities, Harry would often forget that anything prior to this year had even happened. But then something would inevitably trigger in his memory, sending him crashing back to the ground with a heavy thud in his chest. His sleep had become something he no longer worried about, but every so often the smell of a burning torch lighting the corridors would remind him of Fiendfyre. Passing by still-broken sections of the castle would send him tripping over his own feet as a shockwave of cold ice ran down his back. Spotting some of the younger students crying occasionally in the corners of classrooms, being comforted by friends and staff, would remind Harry that the real world still existed, and to everyone else, he was at the heart of all of the suffering.

But not Hermione.

She was his safe space.

She was sweetness and softness and a strange obedient safety net that he could fall into at night, nestled in the warmth of her legs with his arms wrapped possessively around her waist and her fingers trailing through his hair.

She was everything. And he wanted nothing more in the world than to make her happy.

Or make her slightly miserable, depending on the night.

He grinned, looking down at her as he situated himself between her knees. She was certainly miserable now, hair splayed out in a sweaty halo on her pillow, one hand clenched in the sheets and the other shaking as she tried desperately to grip the headboard. He'd scarcely touched her intimately like he had in the alcove, but his passion for kissing her had become an obsession. And while he was determined to move slow for her sake, pressing the hardness in his trousers between her beautiful parted thighs was just enough to drive them both completely mad.

His hands splayed on the outside of her thighs, happy that she had practically skipped out of her skirt the moment they'd entered her room. He purposely left her knickers where they were but delighted in the feel of how the wet cotton moved when he thrusted.

The way her body shook and shivered enthralled him, and soon he was hovering over her, shaking himself as his lips touched hers, sharing one another's panting breaths. He knew he could easily come this way, but that would mean the fun would be over, and they still had hours free. Had his brain been fully functional in the moment, Harry would have contemplated the plethora of things available for him to do during that time, but release was so close, and God he wanted it. He wanted her to have it too.

"Oh my god, I want you," he moaned into her mouth, pressing harder against her and groaning when she pushed her hips up to meet his.

"I'm here," she answered, and her voice had taken on the breathless quality he so loved in her. Her eyes fluttered open and shut for a moment and then she followed his mouth up for another kiss.

He drank her in, a man parched for water having finally reached a cool river. "The things I want to do to you," he murmured, parting from her lips to latch onto her neck, letting his tongue caress the scar there. She trembled beneath him, her whole body tensing as she gasped aloud at the sensation.

"Harry!"

Imagining that she wanted release just as much as he did urged him on, but a small part of him held back. For all the snogging and heavy petting they'd engaged in, he'd never let her come. Nor did he ever reach release with her. He had done it on accident at first, worried that the moment she climaxed she would suddenly see reason. But then it had quickly become a game. Teasing, touching, kissing, and making her so tense and quivering that he hoped she saw stars. Always hoping he could leave her wanting more.

And more, she clearly wanted.

While normally she allowed him to do as he pleased while she pleasantly received his affections, tonight, he had clearly pushed her too close to the edge. As he tasted the supple skin of her neck, moving south to drape wet kisses along the top of her covered breasts, he felt her hand sneak between them, small fingers suddenly and firmly grasping at his belt buckle.

The very thought of being inside of her had his back tensing with anticipation, but he quickly took control of himself, pulling back long enough to get a deep breath and regain his senses.

"Stop," he panted. "What are you doing?"

"I—" she was breathing hard but her fingers stilled on the loose end of his belt. "I thought it would be obvious."

Harry shook his head, dizzy and slightly miserable. "No. Not . . . It's too soon. You're not ready."

Her hazy, lost in pleasure expression was quickly tinged with one of annoyance. "I'm feeling pretty ready, Harry." Her hands on his belt started to move again as she arched up, latching her own mouth onto the pulse at his neck.

He sighed, running his hands through his sweat-soaked hair, groaning at the feel of her kissing his skin. "Hermione, you need to . . . Fuck," he moaned, instinctively pushing against her hand on his trousers. "Jesus."

"Need to touch you," she said, and he felt the zipper go beneath her touch.

"Stop," he whispered, hating himself just a little bit. "I don't want to hurt you."

She was biting her lip now, and he could see the hard line of her teeth sinking into the blanched flesh. Still, she did as she was told, pausing with her hand full on his cock now through his pants.

"I'm not a virgin," she said, and she sounded both amused and aroused, her voice hoarse from all the moaning he'd already made her do that night. "And the only thing that hurts right now . . ." she wrapped one arm around his neck, drawing him down so she could lick the shell of his ear and whisper, "is how empty I feel."

He forcefully stopped himself from whimpering at her words. Fuck. "I don't want to hurt—" he started to repeat himself, briefly lost in the feel of her hand on him. "I don't think I have it in me to . . . to make love to you like you deserve," he finally said, clenching his eyes shut tight as he envisioned what it might actually feel like to bury himself inside of her, rough and hard, coming to the sound of her cries of pleasure.

Her breathing had sped up at his words, and the hand she'd used to draw him nearer was now buried in his hair once more. She waited there until he opened his eyes again, and when he met her gaze his breath nearly caught in his chest. She didn't look frightened or disappointed at all. The only emotions he could read in those molten brown depths were affection, desire, and eagerness.

"We don't have to if you don't want to," she said at last, her voice so low he wouldn't have been able to hear it if he'd been even a few more inches from her. "But Harry . . . Please. I want to make you feel good."

He remembered what she had told him at the start of this weeks ago. That it made sense they'd want to fuck each other. She'd not said "make love" or "have sex". No. Hermione had said "fuck". He still wondered if she truly had any idea what things went through his mind when he pictured it, but he felt helpless to deny her any longer. He didn't like feeling helpless.

To drive his point home and to test her, he trailed a hand up around her neck and through the locks at the back of her head until he could grab a full fist of them. When she sucked in a soft breath at the contact, he pulled tight enough that he would be able to direct her head anyway he wanted. He was not gentle. He was not soft. And he hoped that she could see that in his eyes.

"You still want that?" he asked quietly.

He could see the pulse point near the scar on her throat fluttering like mad and her mouth fell open wide.

"Yes, Harry," she breathed.

"Tell me," he whispered. "Tell me what you want."

She was panting again, and every breath she took made her pulse gently against his cock as her entire body moved.

"I want you to . . ." her voice trailed off and her eyes fluttered shut as she moved herself consciously this time, grinding up against him and whimpering. "Harry, please!"

He had to pause to think clearly for a moment, as his head was telling him one thing and every part of his body was screaming for another. He reasoned on a middle ground, releasing his grip on her hair—for now—and slowly lowering her back to the mattress. With one hand, he pushed hers away from his trousers, undoing the button at the top himself before guiding his cock from the opening of his pants, all the while watching her reaction.

Her eyes widened when she caught sight of him, and the look was probably the most gratifying thing he'd ever seen. And then, she had the gall to smile, the expression triumphant—exultant.

Putting her back in her place, Harry leant forward and touched his lips to her ear. "I'm not fucking you tonight."

She practically sobbed at the declaration. "Harry, please. Please!"

Everything she said after that was a litany of beautiful begging and Harry laughed against her skin, placing a kiss just below her ear as he reached for her small hand, guiding it to touch him. He hissed in a breath when she did, running her soft fingers over his length in exploration.

When she finally grasped him firmly in hand, he let go of her wrist and used the same hand to run up the length of her inner thigh until the tips of his fingers dipped beneath the edge of her knickers, pushing them aside.

He pushed up onto his knees, letting all of his weight fall onto the arm that rested by her head. He had no plans to fuck her for the first time tonight, but she was right about how badly they both needed something else. Something _more_.

His lips brushed against hers the moment that his fingers brushed against her wet folds, his tongue licking against her mouth the same way he wanted to lick elsewhere. When he pulled away from her, he firmly said, "Touch me, and I'll let you come."

Harry didn't worry himself about her earlier statement over not being a virgin. He wasn't one himself and had zero issues with Hermione's past; the grip she took on his cock was evidence enough that she had a little experience at least as she pulled her fist up the length of him, stopping at the tip to run her thumb over the sensitive flesh.

Next time, Harry resolved, he was going to let her do this all on her own and watch her every move as she pleased him. But tonight, he wanted to please her too. After all this build-up, he figured they deserved to come together.

One finger circled her entrance and then slowly dipped inside. He smiled when her motions on his cock stilled, ever focused on what he was doing to her. His thumb swept up, circling her clit and earning a beautiful gasp from her mouth and a delightful twitch of her hips.

"Don't stop," he said, doing his best not to sound like he was pleading himself. "If you stop, then I stop." And to remind her of that, he pushed another finger inside of her, hoping to relieve that empty feeling she had been whinging about. She was wet and tight around him, muscles tensed with weeks of teasing, a cracked dam he was so very eager to burst.

Grinning at the sight of her eyes slightly rolling, Harry kissed her again. "Come on, Hermione," he said, feeling mischievous. "I think we can both earn an Outstanding tonight if we focus."

She said nothing. He honestly wondered if she was capable of speech at this point or if he'd finally found the key to keeping her quiet, but her hand moving on him again was answer enough.

With every stroke of his cock, he moved his fingers inside of her, touching and teasing and testing out every angle he could find, getting high on the movements that made her back arch. He withdrew his fingers just for a moment, long enough to undo the rest of the buttons of her blouse and part them, before he was touching her again, inside of her again. She picked up a good rhythm that had his body aching, and he leant down to run his tongue around her belly button just as he found a perfect rhythm of his own that matched in time with hers.

Harry clenched his teeth, riding the edge, and he grabbed her shoulder with his free hand, holding her tight as he tried to hold back his climax which was so close it was painful. "Tell me when you're close," he moaned against her stomach.

They'd been playing this game for weeks, and so it was no surprise when he could feel her body begin to tense around him. She still seemed incapable of speech, but she let out little whimpers and gasping breaths, her thighs tightening around him and her grip on his cock following suit.

"Harry . . ." she was finally able to mutter, his name shaky on her lips.

He held out long enough to let her come first, riding the high of her orgasm with her and letting it inflate his ego to something that first matched catching the Snitch in Quidditch and then quickly surpassed it. With her body still shaking and her grip on him loosening, Harry sat up and positioned his hand over hers, helping her to stroke him to completion, his climax landing on her stomach—pearly white against the dark of her skin.

Gasping for breath, Harry rolled off of her, practically clutching his chest. "You all right?" he managed to ask.

Hermione didn't move other than to let one hand fall beside her and onto his upper arm.

"Holy God," she said after a few more breaths. Her voice was husky from the moans and groans she'd given him as he'd pleased her. "I don't think I've ever . . . Merlin."

Chuckling from the weight of his own release, Harry muttered, "Nope. Not God or Merlin. Just Harry."


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione was both more sexually frustrated, and more sexually fulfilled than she'd ever been before in her entire life. Frankly, she wasn't sure whether to be thankful or upset.

Harry—who had been making her see stars for almost a month now but was still denying her the satisfaction of a proper shag—was the culprit of her confused state to be sure, but he also hadn't had detention since they'd started seeing one another more intimately. Hermione was so pleased by the change that she couldn't bring herself to resent him for her frustrated state, even on the evenings when he kept her on the precipice, begging for him, only to be left alone in her room with her hand as her only comfort.

She supposed she couldn't blame him . . . Not really. They both knew that, though their housemates all assumed differently, what they had was not meant to last. It was fun—even Hermione had to admit that her own stress levels had plummeted since the first time Harry had snogged her—and it was an outlet for Harry's rougher tendencies, but it was short term. It had an expiration date. Of course, they hadn't exactly settled on a _particular_ date, but assuming a lack of decisiveness on their parts was an indication of a more permanent arrangement would have been pure fantasy. Besides, Hermione wasn't the sort who expected permanency in anything anymore. She'd seen how quickly the world could tilt beneath her feet. She'd been the agent of such upheaval herself.

But none of that bore thinking about now, not when she had a half-naked, talkative Harry Potter in her bed, lounging beside her and popping Bertie Bott's Beans into both of their mouths one at a time.

"I think this one's spearmint," he said, and Hermione twisted onto her side to face him. She'd long since lost her uniform and was lying beside him in an oversized Quidditch jersey she'd stolen from him during their time in the tent, and nothing else. "Want a taste?"

Hermione opened her mouth, and Harry leant in to kiss her, sweeping his tongue over hers possessively before retreating with a grin.

"Definitely spearmint," Hermione agreed.

Harry rolled onto his back, and she watched as he fished another bean out at random and held it up to inspect.

"Harry?" she said, keeping her voice soft as she would were she addressing a hippogriff.

"Hmm?"

She smiled and lay her head down on her pillow. "I'm not wearing any underwear, you know."

He grinned at her, tossing the bean in his hand into his mouth. "I'm aware." His gaze travelled over her legs with an appreciative expression until it suddenly soured. "Oh, yuck. I think that was earthworm."

Hermione crinkled her nose. "Well, I suppose there's kissing gone for the evening." But she leant in to peck the corner of his mouth anyway and then rested her cheek on his shoulder, nestling against him.

She wasn't insecure. Not much, at any rate. She'd gone through her phases, of course, but seeing Viktor in her fourth year had done a great deal to heighten her own self-awareness when it came to her physical attributes. She wasn't vain, but she knew that she wasn't completely unattractive either . . . Still, the fact that Harry wouldn't allow their intimate moments to progress beyond a certain point . . . Well, it rankled.

"Rude," Harry teased as he began running his fingers through her hair and then up and down her back. "I'd still kiss you even if you ate a vomit-flavoured bean."

Perhaps it didn't rankle _that_ much.

She looked up at him, aware that his fingers in her hair were probably leaving a frizzing mess in their wake, but not giving a single damn. She was too distracted by her own thoughts for it to merit consideration.

"Do you not _want_ . . ." How in the hell was one supposed to ask this particular question? She frowned and nestled her face back against his shoulder. "I was just thinking, it's been a month since we started seeing each other. Like this, I mean. Did you not want to . . ." She stared carefully at the coarse black hairs she could see beneath his arm. "Have sex?"

His brow furrowed as he sat up to face her, Hermione compensating for the movement by rolling onto her back again and looking up at him.

"I . . ." He cleared his throat, his eyes drawn back to her bare legs. He reached a hand out, settling it on her knee, slowly working his way up until it moved beneath the jersey to rest on her hip. "Of course I do. But I need to . . . learn restraint before I do anything that I can't take back, Hermione."

His gaze turned toward her face again, and he removed his hand from her hip to gently tug at the neckline of the jersey, revealing her shoulder which was slightly bruised.

"That was just from us playing around," he said. "I'm worried about what else I could do to you."

Hermione looked down at her shoulder thoughtfully. The marks were little more than love bites, and the only thing she'd felt when he'd been making them was a desperate need to come. How could he not understand that? It wasn't as if she were particularly good at playing it cool when he had his hands on her, God forbid his mouth. What made him so concerned that he'd go too far?

_Maybe someone has told him he did before_. The thought came unbidden to her mind and she had to work hard to keep herself from scowling at the thought of him with another woman, someone who hadn't liked hard kisses and stern looks as much as she did. She knew there had been Ginny . . . but had there been others? Could she ask him that?

She frowned and crossed her arms over her chest, staring mutinously up at the ceiling as she tried to fight back the thought of Harry with some nameless, faceless witch . . . someone who had hurt him with her careless words, perhaps. She didn't realise her whole body had tensed until she felt Harry's hand settle on her stomach, tentative and restrained.

"You're lost in your thoughts," he said. "What's going on?"

She allowed herself to look at him again, drank in the sight of his brilliant green eyes and dark hair against skin bronzed by more time than necessary spent outdoors. His scar stood out pale against the tan.

"Have you ever been with anyone? Aside from Ginny, I mean."

Harry immediately shook his head, looking relieved that her concerns weren't about something worse. "Never really had the chance, I suppose," he said thoughtfully before chuckling to himself. "Well, except for the one terrible date with Cho."

Hermione couldn't help but smile at the memory of that.

"Didn't she sob all over you?"

He sighed, his hand making it's way up from her belly to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "It was weird when we were younger, but I feel bad for her, looking back on it. After Cedric, and all. I don't know that I would feel much different than she did if the tables had been reversed."

"No, of course not," Hermione agreed. "That's because you're a good man, Harry. You've at least a pint of emotional range to Ron's teaspoon."

Harry looked away from her, a small, forced-looking smile on his face. "Ah, he's up to at least a tablespoon, I think."

"Maybe," she acknowledged. And then she was rolling onto her stomach, the jersey riding up to just below the curve of her bottom as she propped herself up on one elbow and looked over at him. "I was only ever with one person as well," she said because somehow it seemed important. "Ron and I never . . . did that."

"Thank Merlin," Harry said with a laugh. "Don't get me wrong, it was none of my business, but I really don't want that image in my head."

Hermione buried her hand face in her hands and laughed. "I should hope not," she said, and the sound was muffled against her palms.

His laughter slowly died away as he asked, "Krum, then?"

She tilted her face to the side so that they could see each other again.

"Yeah. Fourth year. He took me back to their ship, actually."

Harry looked suddenly pensive, his brow furrowed once again. "I assumed as much, but you were really young. Not younger than Ginny was when we . . . I suppose. Did he treat you well?" he asked, looking genuinely interested in the answer.

She could feel herself beginning to blush but nodded anyway. "As well as he could have, I think. I was scared. I thought it might hurt. It didn't though. I was glad of that, looking back, because Lavender and Parvati both had horror stories they'd drilled into me after they saw me at the Ball with Viktor."

Pulling his knees to his chest, Harry set himself into a posture that he had been using since they were both children. It instantly made him look closed off, as though he might need to defend himself.

"I'm glad you had a good first experience," he said quietly. "Ginny and I . . . The first time was fine. She mostly instigated it and tried to take control. But the times after that . . ." He looked up and made eye-contact with her. "They weren't great. I hurt her once. Was too rough. She had to steal some bruise-removal paste from a roommate. I couldn't even look at her for a week other than to apologise, and that pissed her off a lot."

Something in her chest twinged at the confession, at the fact he felt he even needed to confess in the first place.

"You know that the things we do together—the love bites and fingerprints . . . All of it—I really like it. Right?"

"I'm holding back," he admitted, looking tortured by the admission. Hermione felt the urge to sit up and wrap her arms around him but resisted. She knew that right now, it would only push him farther away. "And you like them _for now_."

"I like them for always," she said stubbornly, not pausing to examine her words. "I liked Viktor doing the same thing. Half the time I wished he'd have sucked a little harder or grabbed me a little more firmly." She kept going, though she wasn't quite brave enough to meet his gaze. "I think it's just . . . what I like. Soft kisses and touches just . . . They don't feel good. Not really." And then she finally worked up the courage to look back at him, her lower lip caught between her teeth to keep her from saying anything more.

Harry looked like this was the last conversation he ever wanted to have, but he was stubborn in the way he asked, "Viktor ever bite you?" He left no room for her to answer him before he continued, "Tie you up? Bind your hands behind your back maybe?" He finally lifted his gaze to meet hers, and she knew that expression: self-hatred. "Did Viktor ever think about blindfolding you or taping your mouth shut while he fucked you so hard that it left handprint bruises on your thighs?"

She couldn't help herself as he spoke. Each new suggestion made images flash in her mind, pictures of her wrists in ropes, her hair braided up out of the way and her neck covered in red teeth marks. She could see herself just as Harry had said, restrained as he took her, unable to touch him as he tore the sensation from her body with hard, unrelenting strokes.

Beneath the edge of the jersey she wore, she felt herself grow wet, felt her arousal coat her lips and make a mess of the tops of her thighs. Fuck, she'd soak onto the bed if she wasn't careful.

"Is that what you want to do to me?" she heard herself ask, and then she waited breathlessly for his answer.

His breathing had grown heavier, his eyes slightly glazed as he watched her carefully.

"That. And more."

He moved quickly, likely in some half-arsed attempt to frighten her—which did _not_ work—flipping her body over until her back was flat on the mattress and her arms pinned to the side by her head with his hands.

"When my cousin went to his friends' houses, I'd sometimes sneak in his room and look through his things. He kept magazines," Harry said. "Photographs of naked girls, women really." He let go of one of her wrists, running a single finger down the fabric of the jersey, right between her breasts, and as he did, she could feel his knees between her thighs, inches away from the sodden core of her.

"I think I'd like to watch you get a piercing." He licked his lips before touching her right nipple through the jersey. When her lips parted and her back arched at the sensation, Harry exhaled and touched the left one, pinching it. "Maybe two."

She groaned. _Moaned_. And her vivid imagination showed her that scene too as the subtle pain at her breast shot straight down to her clit.

"Fuck, Harry," she said, not hearing herself . . . Not really. "Do it again." She arched her back further, trying to push her whole breast into his hand, begging for his touch. "Sounds so hot. So bloody hot."

Harry pulled his hand away from her, settling it on her stomach, and she whimpered. "No," he said. But then his hand slowly moved down, past the hem of the jersey until his fingers were brushing against the hair covering her mound. "What happens, Hermione . . ." he asked, and suddenly, instead of her nipple, it was her clit that he was pinching—hard. "What happens if I go too far? If it's not fun for you anymore?"

It was all she needed.

She had not realised how close she was to coming until his fingers closed, hard against the pulsing centre of her pleasure, and sent her spinning into wild abandon. She screamed, her head tilting backward so far she could feel her hair tugging at her scalp as she came and came and came. It didn't stop after a moment, just kept going as Harry gripped her, keeping her clit between his fingers as it pulsed so hard she saw stars. By the time it ended she was soaked in sweat, and her legs were trembling as her whole sex pulsed in time with her heart and her inner walls fluttered around nothing.

She wasn't sure how long it took her to come down from the climax, to see the world around her again, but when she did, the first thing she saw was Harry, staring down at her as though she'd grown a tail or turned into a pygmy puff. Long gone was the stern expression and furrowed brow. Instead, he looked completely gobsmacked.

"I did . . . _not_ expect that to happen," Harry admitted sheepishly.

She was still panting, her limbs lax against the bed and her gaze hooded as she stared up at him. She didn't care.

"I think," she said, pausing for a breath, "I think I liked that idea very much." And then, because Harry was still focused on her, and he wasn't looking defensive or self-loathing anymore, and she was the sort of woman who seized her opportunities, she added. "Maybe next time I'll share some of _my_ fantasies."

At this, Harry let out a shocked laugh, his rigid posture softening until he was down on the bed with her, a possessive arm wrapped around her waist. "You do that."

She could smell him as he nestled her against him, could smell her own arousal on the air too, and as she buried her face against his chest and breathed deeply, she knew she absolutely would. If talking about one of Harry's fantasies got her going like this, she couldn't wait to see what acting out one of _hers_ would do to them both.

* * *

The early December snow blanketed the pathway to Hogsmeade, but the weather did little to deter Harry, Ron, and Hermione as they made their way toward the village. Harry grinned at the feel of the crunching snow beneath his boots, his smile widening at the way that Hermione's feet practically disappeared beneath the white with every step.

The snow reminded him of good times that had passed. Many trips to Hogsmeade, just like this, with the two most important people in the world to him. However, instead of following after Ron and Hermione under the invisibility cloak—due to his lack of a permission slip—Harry walked side-by-side with them. Instead of thinking about Cho or Ginny or the weird way Romilda Vane always looked at him while Hermione and Ron awkwardly danced around one another, it was _Ron_ clearly daydreaming about other girls while Harry held Hermione's hand, treasuring the feel of it within his own.

"You two are lucky, y'know," Ron said with an exaggerated sigh. "No worries about who you're going to go to the stupid Yule Ball with."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Technically, I haven't even asked Hermione yet," he pointed out as he winked at her. "She could already have another date."

Hermione smiled, looking pleased and just a bit mischievous as she replied. "Right you are. If history has taught us anything it's that I could very well be going with an International Quidditch star."

Despite not holding Hermione's past against her in any way, Harry did feel a tiny amount of jealousy thinking of Hermione dancing with Viktor. For one thing, Viktor—unlike Harry—actually _knew_ how to dance. Still, he put the little bit of envy away to unpack another day and instead focused on Hermione's smile and the way she held her head high with confidence as she fake-threatened to go to the ball with someone else.

"I'll do my best to ask as soon as possible," Harry assured her.

"Well, at least I had enough money this time to buy proper dress robes," Ron said, his face brightening at that. "Now I just need to find a date. Preferably one that actually _wants_ to go with me this time."

"Maybe someone from our year," said Hermione, and she looked a little peeved as she continued, "From what I've heard in the Common Room, most of the fifth and sixth years are plotting to get Harry to take them."

Throwing his head back with a put-upon sigh, Harry groaned. "Please just make it stop."

Ron snorted. "Oh, the woes of being Harry Potter."

Letting go of Hermione's hand, Harry bent down and scooped up two handfuls of snow, forming them into a tight ball.

"Oi!" Ron yelled. "This is a new jumper! Don't you dare!"

Harry raised his hand high and then stopped, pointing over Ron's shoulder. "Is that Lavender?"

Ron spun on his heel so fast, he almost fell over into a snowbank. "What?"

The snowball hit the back of Ron's head, dead centre.

Beside Harry, Hermione tried to muffle her laughter. Harry could tell she was trying to look impartial but her eyes sparkled with amusement, and as Ron turned back to face them she couldn't help the wide grin that took the place of her amused smile.

"You've got something in your hair," she said. "Just there."

Dusting the snow from his ginger locks, Ron glared up at Harry. "Wanker."

"Back to the point," Harry said, watching Ron carefully for any oncoming retaliation. "You need a date. And fast. And someone . . . 'Hermione approved'," he added with a chuckle. "Otherwise you'll end up escorting some war-hero-worshipping idiot. I'd offer my input, but history says that I'm only good with witches one out of three times."

"What about Parvati? You took her to the last ball," Ron pointed out.

Harry grimaced. "Fine. One out of four times."

"Hey! One of those four was my sister," Ron said, looking like he was trying to appear offended on Ginny's behalf, but Harry didn't even have a chance to counter before Ron added, "Nah, good point."

"What about Lavender?" said Hermione, sounding thoughtful now. "You talk _about_ her enough, it might be a nice change to talk _to_ her for once."

"From what I remember, they didn't do much _talking_ before," Harry said under his breath.

Hermione cut him a look that would have made a less secure man quiver before saying, "I'm aware," and then turning back to Ron. "I'm also serious. It's clear you fancy her."

"And didn't you say she was upset that you took Parvati on a date?" Harry asked.

Ron scratched his head, looking uncomfortable. "There was that. She's not been very social since coming back. I just assumed she'd not want anything to do with me."

"Of course she's not been social," said Hermione, and she sounded exasperated. "She's been through a war too, you know."

Harry frowned, touching his forehead. "You think she's worried about her scars?"

Hermione nodded once, glancing down at the sleeve of her jacket for a moment and then back at Harry.

Ron furrowed his brow. "What scars?" Then he blinked. "Oh, the—" He gestured at his own face, waving his fingers around. "What would that matter? Bill's got more of the same."

Harry exhaled in mild frustration for his friend and then turned his attention to Hermione. "Teaspoon?" he asked her, wincing. She only shook her head and sighed.

Approaching the high street, Hogwarts students hurried from shop to shop, gathering up supplies, purchasing holiday gifts, and generally enjoying a moment of time away from the prying eyes of school staff.

Professor Trelawney appeared to be the Hogsmeade chaperone, but she was facing skyward. Her thick glasses looked as though they were glowing with the light reflecting off of them. The professor had an amethyst the size of a Bludger hanging off a long chain in one hand, and a yardstick in the other. It looked as though she were trying to measure the distance between clouds.

Before any of them were noticed, Harry took Hermione's hand and waved for Ron to duck out of Trelawney's path. They only had so much time allotted for Hogsmeade, and getting caught up in whatever the clouds might be telling their Divination Professor would likely take at least an hour.

"Is that Ginny?" Harry asked, spotting his ex lingering outside of the Quidditch Shop, Spintwitches Sporting Needs. "God, I hope she doesn't have another idiot boyfriend hanging around." He looked at Hermione. "Not that I'm jealous. I just . . . y'know . . . hate idiots."

"Shame you _are_ one half the time," Ron muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets as he gave the street a good look around. "Nah. She's roaming about with Parvati by the looks of it. Or maybe that's Padma. Could never tell 'em apart."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Merlin's thumbs, Ron. Do better."

"Pretty sure it's Parvati," Harry pointed out, watching as she and Ginny headed for the tea shop. "I don't think Padma would be caught dead in there."

For the very briefest of moments, Harry wondered about taking Hermione to Madam Puddifoot's, but then immediately ruled the idea as laughable—so much so that he actually laughed out loud, shaking his head when Ron and Hermione both gave him a look. "It's nothing. Want to head to the book shop?"

"And _that's_ my cue to leave," Ron said with a chuckle. "I'll be at the Broomsticks if you need me."

"We won't," said Hermione under her breath, and when Ron heard her and looked as if he might protest, she stuck her tongue out at him. It made her look about fifteen for half a moment before she laughed and Ron realised she was teasing.

Walking behind Ron, as the Three Broomsticks was on the way to the book shop, Harry noticed Lavender walking out of Honeyduke's carrying two bags in addition to her bookbag. She was clearly struggling and alone. Most of her hair had been curled to cover the portion of her face Harry knew to be scarred by Greyback, and in her efforts to keep her scars concealed above all else, she had lost her grip on one of her bags letting wrapped sweets cascade out into the street.

"Go!" Hermione hissed, putting a hand on Ron's upper arm and shoving him toward the spot where Lavender was contending with her escaped purchases. "Help her!"

"Wha—?" Ron barely managed to get out before he was nearly tripping over his feet, hurtling toward his ex-girlfriend.

Harry turned around and cringed. "Just let me know if he falls over on her."

Hermione watched Ron for several more seconds, one hand raised above her brow as if she expected to need to hide her gaze at any moment . . . but soon the anxious observance faded and she was smiling again.

Harry thought she'd never looked prettier.

"Oh he's done it," she said. "Is it odd I feel proud?"

Casting a glance at the scene to spot his best friend trying to scoop up what looked like hundreds of Bertie Bott's Beans into his new jumper, Harry grinned. "Let's go before we look like we're intruding."

He took Hermione's hand with ease, stopping in his stride only when a small handful of locals spotted them, eyes widening. Harry was used to being gawked at, of course, especially since the end of the war, but he noticed their attention was not on his scar or him in general but on Hermione's hand in his.

"Shit," he whispered in a panic under his breath and spun them both around. "I didn't even think. It'll be in the papers tomorrow, for certain. Fuck, I'm sorry, Hermione."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "Would that embarrass you?" Her hand loosened in his as if she were about to pull away.

"What?" he asked, looking down at her perplexed. "Why would _I_ be—? I meant _you_. Don't think I've forgotten or forgiven Rita Skeeter for fourth year."

Hermione sighed with apparent relief and said, "Well _I'm_ not embarrassed," as if it somehow settled the matter. Her hand tightened on his once more. "Besides, Rita and I have an understanding."

Harry frowned, still feeling the weight of his celebrity drama infecting her. "You can't threaten every reporter. I don't want you getting hurt again because of me."

This time, her exasperated look was aimed at him. "If you think anything those reporters might write could hurt me, you've gotten me confused with Mrs Weasley. I'm not fifteen anymore, and the only thing that matters to me is what _we_ think about us. Everyone else can sod right off. All right?"

Still, as much as he admired her courage, he couldn't help but remember that it was _actually_ Mrs Weasley who'd hurt Hermione the most after the _Daily Prophet_ had slandered her reputation to pieces. However, the way she tightly held onto his hand and that determined look in her eyes made him feel so proud to be standing there with her.

"All right," he replied with a smile, and then leant down to chastely kiss her.

They made their way to the bookshop with no further stops, ignoring every set of eyes that fell on them. Harry wondered what Hermione was thinking, of course. Maybe she had been caught up in the moment and would rethink things if they did actually end up in the paper. Just the thought of Hermione getting cursed letters again had him quietly fuming. He did his best to keep it all inside, though, focusing instead on the why's of Hermione's bold stance. A large part of him hoped it was because she was enjoying this "fake dating" more than she had originally thought. Perhaps he could somehow convince her to make it real. It was real enough for him, after all. He only went along with the "fake" thing because she had seemed so set on it.

"Need a new bag, love?"

"Love?" Harry asked, pulled from his thoughts and shoved directly into new ones.

_Oh my god, am I in love with Hermione?_

He began to panic, resting a hand on a nearby bookshelf to steady himself.

The sweet, old witch that ran the bookshop patted him on the shoulder. "I said did you need a new bag, love?" she repeated slower. "Your little witch over there will surely burst open the one she's already got with what she looks intent on purchasing."

Blinking, Harry took in the words one by one, doing his best to filter them through his own panic. Turning his attention to Hermione, he smiled at the sight of her walking around the shop with a stack of books magically floating behind her.

He knew that she still had an Undetectable Extension Charm on her bags—and also knew that the government was still very unaware of this—but he focused on the shopkeeper and smiled. "What's the best one you've got?"

While taking a gander at the bags, Harry spotted something shiny hanging from a nearby case, and he grinned in excitement as an idea hit him as hard as a Cheering Charm.

Making his purchases in secret, Harry stood by with a happy smile as Hermione approached the counter. Instead of being placed into sacks, the shopkeeper settled most of the expensive books into the new bag, saving the less rare editions for a small sack.

"All settled for you, dearie," the shopkeep said, tossing a secret smile to Harry.

"Want me to carry that for you?" he asked, reaching for the new bag.

"Wait." Hermione looked confused, looking down at the bag hanging from her shoulder and then back to the one Harry was hoisting over his. "That's not mine," she protested. "And I didn't pay for my books yet."

"It is now," he proclaimed with a happy smile. "And I took care of everything."

"Harry!"

By the way she said his name, he could tell she was about to start a lecture, so he cut her off before she could begin properly. Leaning in close and making it look like he was only slipping her other bag off of her shoulder to carry as well, Harry whispered, "Are you thinking about arguing with me right now? Because I had planned a nice day of buying you things you love, but if you want to go back to the castle and have me throw you over my lap, I will."

Her inhale was sharp by his ear, and he waited as she took several moments to compose herself. The woman across the counter looked on curiously.

"I wouldn't be averse to that," Hermione said at last, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Harry caught the shopkeeper gawking, and he smiled. "You're welcome," he said loudly before kissing Hermione's cheek and using that moment to whisper, "I won't let you come for a week."

She whimpered, and he moved his lips to the corner of her mouth for a moment before withdrawing. When he looked at her again, he could see her warring with herself, see the way her perfect straight teeth worried her lower lip and her brown eyes darted from him to the bag of books he'd just bought her and back up again.

Before she could land on a response, Harry shouldered both bags and smiled at the shopkeep. "Thank you for everything," he said and then promptly left the shop _and_ Hermione behind.

He counted the seconds before she joined him again (there were twenty-two) and when he felt her slip her warm palm against his, he smiled.

"Thank you," she said, not looking at him as she spoke, though her fingers twined with his.

"Don't let go of that anger just yet," he said, looking around before tugging her back around the shop and into a small alley between buildings. Gently setting the bags down on a dry bit of cobblestone, he let go of her hand and reached into the pocket of his trousers, retrieving a delicate silver chain with a charm of a key on the end of it. "This is yours too."

"You didn't," she said, and there was a slightly wild look to her eyes as she studied the charm.

Harry beamed excitedly. She looked like she wanted to fight him for a second, but he knew she wouldn't dare. It was like playing Quidditch all over again. A bit of danger and a gold prize at the tips of his fingers, waiting to be caught.

"You're the worst," she said as she shook her head and reached out to take the chain in her own hand, and though she was clearly annoyed, there was also a small smile tugging at the corners of her stubborn lips.

"I'm glad someone thinks so," he said happily, feeling something in his chest jump at the thought of her wearing it. It felt like excitement again, but something else: fear. Was this love?

Fuck.

He was utterly fucked.

"What does it unlock?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts as she inspected the delicate filigree.

Clearing his throat and losing the bit of confidence he'd previously had as he warred in his head over definitions of love, Harry ran a hand through his hair. _Don't say 'my heart'. Don't say 'my heart'. Don't you dare say 'my heart' you utter twat_.

"Oh, you know . . . things," he muttered, wincing as the words left his mouth.

She glanced up at him, one brow raised. "Sexy things?" she teased. And then she undid the clasp and held the necklace up toward him. "Help me with this?"

Relieved, Harry took the clasp and gently pushed her hair aside with the back of his hand, locking the necklace in place and then kissing the spot just below her ear. When she shivered against him, a bit of his confidence was restored.

"Never take it off," he told her.

Her breath hitched again as she looked up at him, a challenge clear in her gaze.

"Or what?"

Licking his lips, Harry thought of being playful and telling her the many ways he could punish her, but instead what came out was, "When you wear it, I'll know that you're . . . mine."

Her lips parted, and he watched as her pupils went wide in her lovely dark irises. She looked for a moment as if she might speak, but then she was taking the charm and tucking it beneath her shirt, nestling it above her breasts.

"I'll keep it right here," she said.

Harry drew his gaze to her shirt, audibly groaning a little at the thought of the necklace there. "Reminds me of other jewellery I think I mentioned getting for you." He glanced around the alley to make sure no one was looking before carefully running the edge of a knuckle against the peak of one breast.

She bit her lip. Hard. He could see the dark skin blanching as she met his eyes with her own and they sparked with arousal.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Harry," she said, and he could still see the marks her teeth had left on that lower lip as she gave him a smirk.

He shook his head, wondering over and over to himself how he never knew this side of her. Had it always existed? Or was she saving it just for him? He reached up, running the pad of his thumb against her now-bruised lip.

"Christmas?" he offered. "I can't tell if it would be a gift for you or _me_ , though."

Her eyes sparked again when she realised he was serious. He could see her chest rising and falling more quickly, feel her breath against his cheek.

"If you're teasing, I'm going to kill you," she warned, though she sounded faint.

He smirked at her. "Darker wizards than you have tried."

She smacked his arm, though there was barely any force behind the blow. And then she was gnawing on her lip again and looking pensive. He allowed her the time to think though the anticipation nearly did him in, and when she spoke again he watched her carefully.

"We'll have to go to London," she said, and the barely concealed excitement in her tone made his mind wander to what she would look like. "And we'll have to find a wizard to do it. I've heard there are charms that . . . heal things. Quickly."

Eyes widening with an idea, Harry blurted out, "Stay the holiday with me at Grimmauld! I'm sure they have a place in Diagon," he said and then corrected, "Maybe Carkitt Market?"

Hermione nodded, and there was no concealing her enthusiasm now. Still, she gave him a cheeky grin and her hand went to the chain on the necklace he'd only just given her. He wondered if she even knew she was touching it. "Haven't even asked me to the ball yet, and you're already inviting me to stay at your place for Christmas Hols. Very bold, Potter."

He stepped forward, eliminating the small amount of space left between them. He could feel her every intake of breath against his chest. "Do you want me to ask you?" he questioned her as he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Or _tell_ you?"

"If I have to say, are you really making the decisions around here?"

Rubbing his thumb against her bottom lip again, Harry grinned. "Mouthy." With his other hand, he reached up, lightly touching the chain around the back of her neck. "You're coming with me."

"My room or yours?"

Perfect. She was _perfect_.

Kissing her was the only thing Harry could think to do, but instead of grabbing her hard and shoving her up against one of the buildings they were hiding between, he wrapped his arms around her, practically laughing against her mouth when she put her hand in his hair, mussing it as she returned his affection. It was a perfect moment with the perfect girl.

And then there was a bright flash in the corner of his eye.

Harry jumped away from Hermione, nearly shoving her behind him as he drew his wand only to see a third year at the end of the alleyway taking photos of their friends and not even noticing Harry and Hermione.

His breath felt like fire in his chest, and he could smell the smoke burning its way through his sinuses. His ears were ringing with the loud banging echoes of a thousand spells being shot across the courtyard, and his heart pummelled against his chest as though it were trying to wake him up.

"Well, that's nice." The sound of Hermione's laughter snapped him out of the moment, drawing him back to reality as quickly as the camera flash had torn him away from it. "Help me up, will you?"

He turned to see her on her arse in the snow, dusting herself off and tucking her wand away.

_When had she reached for her wand?_

Catching his breath, Harry put his own wand back in the holster where he kept it and extended a hand to her. "Sorry, Hermione. I thought it was . . ." He stopped there. They both knew what he thought it had been. "I didn't mean to push you down. Are you okay?"

"Perfectly fine," she said once she was on her feet, but then she gave him yet another exasperated look. "Though, it would be nice if you'd remember you're not the only war veteran between us next time some arsehole does something arseish." One of the third years seemed to have heard _that_ because they started murmuring amongst themselves and throwing dirty looks Hermione's way.

"They're just kids," Harry said, brushing off the point that she was trying to make.

"And I'm just an able-bodied witch with a wand and eleven O.W.L.s to her name." She paused, looking thoughtful for a moment before she directed her gaze back up at him. "You know, just because you get to boss me around in the bedroom, it doesn't mean I'm not capable of defending myself . . . Right?"

Her words hit him hard, but he did his very best not to let it show. He also tried not to let it show that he was remembering her bleeding on the Malfoy's floor. Eventually, Harry swallowed down his pride—which felt like cut glass—and nodded. "Forgive me?"

This time her grin was enough to knock _him_ on _his_ arse. She pushed herself up onto her toes and kissed his cheek before she answered. "Every time."

Sighing with relief, he took her hand in one of his, using the other to pick up her bags of books. She was right. She was capable. How many times had he survived on Hermione's actions alone? She was a powerful witch. It was one of the things he _loved_ about her.

Harry closed his eyes.

_Love_.

_Fuck_.


	9. Chapter 9

She looked damn good if she did say so herself. And she did—repeatedly—as she studied herself in the mirror. Maybe if she said it enough she'd believe it completely rather than continuing to harbour the voices of her peers from the Muggle world in her head.

_Why's your hair so frizzy? Did you forget to wash this morning, Granger? Does your mum even know how to do a plait?_

Fuck them.

She looked bloody beautiful. She _felt_ beautiful. The length in her hair and the product she'd applied liberally to it had her locks curling in tight spirals down her back, coming nearly to her waist and bouncing gently with every cock of her hip as she studied herself from a new angle. Her skin looked smooth and contrasted with the white dress she wore, which was, perhaps, just a bit indecent for a school function where fourteen-year-olds would be present. Still, _she_ wasn't fourteen, and though the plunging neckline went down very low indeed, highlighting the silver necklace Harry had given her, the structure of the dress kept her breasts themselves neatly out of sight, only allowing the barest glimpse of smooth, rounded skin on either side.

The back was a different story, but when the Headmistress had sent out her memo on 'decorum' and 'decency' with regards to the Yule Ball, she'd failed to mention anything about bare backs.

Hermione had decided to take full advantage. If she had her way, tonight would be the night she pushed Harry farther than he'd allowed her to push in the past, and perhaps the night she'd get to feel that magnificent cock of his doing something other than teasing her to distraction and ruin.

A knock sounded at her bedroom door and she turned, doing one more check to make sure everything was in place before storing her wand in the holster she'd hidden round her thigh and then letting the skirt of the dress tumble back into place, the long slit descending from just below one hip to the floor allowing her the range of motion she would need if she had to actually use her wand.

"Come in!" she called, turning to face the door as her stomach began to flutter nervously. She waited for only a second more before the door swung open and Harry stepped in.

He was dressed impeccably, and the fluttering in her belly turned into a low pulsing that radiated over her entire body.

His robes were new— black with dark red lining— and they fit him marvellously. His shoulders looked very broad indeed and his hair had been tamed for the first time in her memory, swooping forward and then to one side and making him look… in control.

One look at her, however, and his mouth fell open, his eyes widening. "Wow. Hermione, you look . . . Wow."

She grinned, taking care not to bite the lip she'd spent the better part of ten minutes applying lipstick to artfully.

"Thanks. You look quite dashing as well." And because she couldn't help herself, she added, "I didn't know your hair could do that."

He glanced down at himself and gave an awkward shrug before running his fingers through his hair and then scratching the beard that he'd not bothered to shave since they'd begun "dating".

"It's a lot of charm work," he admitted with a little laugh. "I have to admit, I feel a little strange going to this thing. Like we're too old to be going to a school dance."

She knew how he felt. She was twenty years old and hardly needed a chaperone. Still… there was something exciting about the idea of being at a dance with him, being on his arm while he looked like that and she looked like this and everyone else could look on and know that _she_ was the girl he'd chosen. For now.

"I'm leaning into it," she admitted, gesturing down at her gown and then giving him a twirl so he could see the back plunging down just past where her hair ended, giving a brief glimpse of her smooth flesh before she was facing him again.

Confident expression returning to his face, Harry stepped toward her with a look of raw determination and desire. His hands settled firmly on the curve of her waist, fingers inching until the tips touched the bare skin of her back.

"Mmm," he groaned a little, twirling a long curl around his finger behind her. "I can't tell if I'm excited to show you off a little or determined to make sure no one but me gets to see this version of you."

The comment made her groan low in her throat and she leant forward, pressing her forehead to his shoulder and gripping his robes at the front.

"You keep talking like that and I'll make the decision for you," she joked.

With one hand, he tugged on the lock of hair in his hand, cupping her arse with his other hand and pulling her tight against him until she could feel the slight outline of his erection against her belly.

"You seem to forget that you don't get to make those decisions, love."

She couldn't help it. She bit her lip at the endearment and melted against him before she found her voice to respond.

"Yes, Harry… But after?"

He smiled, tilting her head back and kissing the corner of her mouth. "After the ball? I'm bound and determined to see how far I can get my head up under this dress."

"Thank God," she breathed, and then pushed herself up onto the toes of her high heeled shoes to kiss him gently on the tip of his nose. The lipstick left a slight mark and so she reached up to wipe it away. "Sorry. I had this idea of what I'd do with the lipstick later in the evening. This was not its purpose. You ready to go down?"

Eyes briefly widening, Harry stared at her for a long moment in utter silence before asking, "Umm . . . What were you planning on doing with your lipstick?"

She smiled again. She'd hoped he would ask. "I was hoping you'd let me leave it… elsewhere."

Harry let out a sharp breath. "Well, that's that, then," he said. "We're not leaving this bloody room for the rest of the night."

"You lovebirds ready?" Ron's voice filtered in through the open door just before his ginger head popped into view. He was smiling broadly—mischievously—and Hermione resisted the urge to hex him. "I know I'm going stag, but a bloke doesn't want to show up _completely_ alone."

Sighing loudly and pressing his forehead against Hermione's, Harry muttered. "Gonna need a minute, mate." He clenched his eyes shut tight, and Hermione could hear him whispering under his breath, "Umbridge. Umbridge. Umbridge. Umbridge and Filch." He then loudly cleared his throat. "Okay, I think I'm good."

"Just think about McGonagall with knickers on," Ron sang as he headed back down the eighth years' corridor. "It's what I do when Lavender bends over in front of me."

Harry made a face. "Is he implying that the Headmistress normally _doesn't_ wear knickers?"

"Everyone has needs," she teased, shrugging and then looping her arm through Harry's. She moved to stand beside him and waited for him to lead the way out and after Ron.

The walk to the Great Hall took longer than usual. Hermione nearly tripped twice on the way down, and if it hadn't been for Harry steadying her, she would have gone tumbling headfirst down a flight of stairs on at least one of those occasions. She didn't normally wear shoes that were so difficult to walk in, and after her second mishap, she heard Harry grumble in disapproval beside her. She tried not to take it personally. He tended to get testy when she was in danger, and she supposed she couldn't fault him for that. He'd had enough people close to him injured to last a lifetime.

They entered just behind Ron, and Hermione let herself pause for a moment in the doorway, taking in the scene. It was just as beautiful as it had been for the Ball in their fourth year. The whole place was dotted with a vast array of twinkling fairy lights, tastefully decorated pine trees, and magical mistletoe various couples were taking pains to get trapped beneath. The music was loud and echoing throughout the room, but not as loud as the hundreds of voices raised in merriment as they twirled around the dance floor like great sparkling marionettes. It was a pretty sight, and it took her straight back to her fourth year when she'd been all of fifteen and on the arm of probably the second most famous man in the room. She'd felt beautiful… almost as beautiful as she felt now, almost as treasured as she felt with her arm looped through Harry's and his hand on hers. Almost, but not quite.

And then she felt them. Hundreds of eyes trained on her and Harry. A hush descending as the occupants of the room took notice and then began to whisper furiously to one another.

She felt something high in her chest tighten uncomfortably and tried to take a breath. It hurt going in and she looked off to the side, away from Harry so he wouldn't see her discomfort. She hated all the staring. All the eyes. It felt nothing like it had during fourth year. This time, it made her want to hide away.

"Hey," Harry's voice finally broke through to her. When she turned to look at him, he was smiling softly in her direction. "You all right?"

Hermione wanted to answer him, wanted to assure him she was fine… but her throat wasn't working properly, so she just forced a smile and nodded before taking a step into the room. He followed, and soon they were in the mass of students rather than the object of appraisal, and she felt the tightness in her chest beginning to ease.

"There you two are!" Ron sounded out of breath as he barrelled past a group of fifth years and nearly skidded to a stop beside Harry, grinning widely. "Look," he said, "I know I said I'd hang round with you two, but Lav's just said she'll dance with me." He gave them both a speculative look. "You two don't need a buffer or anything do you? Smells a little awkward at the moment."

"Christ, Ronald," Hermione hissed, finally able to speak again in her annoyance. "Go bother Lavender already."

He shrugged and winked first at her and then, more exaggeratedly, at Harry.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do, kids," he said, and then disappeared into the throng of dancing students.

Harry sighed, chuckling softly as he watched Ron leave. "Sometimes I can't tell if he's living life better than the rest of us or if we should be really worried about him."

"His mother worries enough about him for the both of us," said Hermione, shrugging before she braved a look up at Harry again at last. She pushed down any of the lingering awkwardness from their entrance and allowed herself to appreciate the view instead.

"You know, you're very handsome."

His hand rested on the small of her back, gently drawing little comforting circles against the fabric of her dress.

"If I am, it's only because I'm trying very hard to look worthy of you right now." The smile he gave her was honest and warm and did things to her—made her feel about a hundred things she couldn't name—but there was a strange vulnerability in his gaze as well.

"How long do we need to stay here for, anyway?" she asked, surprised at how husky the question sounded.

He looked about to answer when another voice cut in from behind the both of them.

"Mr Potter! And Miss Granger!"

They both turned in time to see Professor Slughorn sidestep a pair of dancing sixth years, begging their pardon as he went, before settling himself in front of Harry and Hermione with his hands on his hips and his chin held high.

"We missed you at our dinner this evening," he said without preamble.

Hermione's eyes widened. The Slug Club. She'd forgotten.

She turned a panicked gaze on Harry, who looked like he was desperately attempting to not appear annoyed. It was an expression he'd nearly perfected during their sixth year when Professor Snape had taught Defence Against the Dark Arts.

"I'm so sorry, Professor," Hermione said, looking back at the older man in his expensive robes which looked as if they might be cutting off the circulation around his belly. "We meant to come." That sounded right, but by the look on the man's face, wasn't nearly enough. "We were on our way, actually." She nudged Harry in the ribs with one elbow, trying to keep the movement casual as she glanced back at him.

_Help_ , she tried to telegraph to him through her eyes. He was the Slughorn charmer, not her!

Wrapping his arm around her waist, Harry met Slughorn's expectant look and said, "I'm afraid it's my fault professor." Slughorn stared between the two, noting immediately the lack of distance between them. It was as though he were already prepping himself to obtain their future offspring for his Slug Club. Before the man could say anything in reply, though, Harry continued, "We were on our way, but we . . . well, we got distracted, sir.."

At the knowing twinkle in Professor Slughorn's eye, Hermione added, "By a first year. She was trying to sneak down for the ball and we had to chase her back to the common room…"

Slughorn looked sceptical and she felt Harry's hand squeeze lightly on her waist.

"She started crying after that," Hermione added, trying to keep the colour from rising to her cheeks. "It took us quite a while to get her sorted."

"Well," said the professor, who— though clearly disbelieving— still seemed noticeably cheered now that he realised they were there _together_ , "I suppose it can't be helped." And then he pulled a handkerchief from one of his pockets, dabbing at the bald patch above his forehead for a moment before smiling at the both of them. "And I am glad to see two such promising students depending upon one another for support during difficult times. It does my old heart good."

Hermione's brow furrowed, and before she could think better of it, before she could reverse course or think about escaping the situation altogether, she asked, "Difficult times, Professor?"

The old man gave her a kindly smile and reached out, patting her arm just above the elbow and stepping in so that she could hear him when he lowered his voice. She smelled elf wine on his breath.

"Your parents, dear. The Headmistress told us before the start of term. I hope you know that you have my deepest sympathies, and should you need anything, anything at all, you need only ask."

"My parents," she echoed.

"Again, my condolences."

And then the professor was gone, leaving only the cloying scent of his breath and an emptiness in the pit of her stomach behind.

Her parents.

"Hermione?"

She wasn't sure why the mention of them had taken her by surprise. She didn't know why the thought of their faces left her feeling so… vacant. Perhaps it was that tonight, she had allowed herself to believe the lie. She'd let herself feel beautiful, desirable… Loveable.

She'd let herself forget she'd already thrown love away. That she was unworthy of that type of affection.

"Hermione? Are you all right?"

She was going to be sick.

"Harry," she breathed, the feel of his hand on her hip the only thing she could feel sinking in through the icy shroud that had woven itself around her. "I need some air."

* * *

Harry hadn't been overly thrilled with the idea of attending another Yule Ball. His fourth year at Hogwarts had very few fond memories thanks to the Triwizard Tournament and everything leading up to Cedric Diggory's murder and Voldemort's subsequent resurrection. As horrible as that whole year had been, a constant reminder of who he was in the Wizarding World, it was the Yule Ball that had reminded him he was also just a teenager—and that was sometimes worse.

He still didn't know how to dance, barely knew how to dress well, and hated the idea of walking into a crowded room with everyone staring at him. They'd stare. He knew they would. Despite going to classes with him all week long, Harry knew that once he walked into the Great Hall that night, everyone would look at him and think, "There he is, there's the Chosen One" while simultaneously remembering, as he was, the previous Yule Ball where everything in the world had essentially gone to shit. Only now, instead of "Harry Potter who probably cheated his way into the Tournament" people would whisper, "Were you here when he killed Voldemort? He killed him right here, right where they expect us to dance."

Going to meals in the hall was easy enough. The tables had all been put back in place, and students muttering worries about classes and exams took up priority in Harry's eyes and ears. But he dreaded going to the ball because he knew the tables would have been pushed to the sides to make room for dancing, and the crowds of students and staff would stand in the centre of the large hall, just like they all had less than a year ago. As he'd adjusted his robes and glanced at himself one last time in the mirror before going to retrieve Hermione, Harry wondered if he'd end up dancing with her on the same spot where it had all ended. He wondered if the magic would linger there. If he would close his eyes and still smell it: the horrid stench of a Killing Curse backfiring.

The sight of Hermione in that dress had erased all thoughts from his head. There was only her. There had only _ever_ been her.

As they walked toward the Great Hall, her arm looped through his, Harry did still think back on the final battle, but instead of worrying about every little detail and what everyone else would be thinking and whispering, all he could concentrate on was how utterly grateful he was that after his death in the Forbidden Forest, he'd made the choice to come back.

Hell, he'd even dance with her if it made her happy.

Slughorn's appearance put a dead stop to all of Harry's plans, though.

The expression on Hermione's face once Slughorn left her with his condolences and a quick parting of ways had Harry concerned. He called out her name multiple times, but she nearly looked as though she'd been Imperiused. The only difference, he thought, was that when people were Imperiused, they looked oddly at peace.

Hermione looked . . . broken.

Her request for air put his body into immediate action, and his arm around her waist was now steadily directing her back through the exit, doing his best to be as casual as possible so as not to draw any unwanted attention. Thankfully, most staff members just gave brief nods of the head to them as they moved through the open doors, and most of the other students were too caught up in the decorations, music, and their own dates to bother caring what Harry Potter and Hermione Granger were doing.

The closer they got to the large entrance doors of the castle, the more Harry was tempted just to pick her up and run her outside, but he did his best instead to keep her steady on her feet, even as her grip on his arm tightened. Even above the echoing sounds of her heels clicking on the floor, Harry could hear the sharp intake of her breaths and how each exhale came out shaky.

He let go of her only long enough to close the heavy doors behind them, wanting to give her as much privacy as possible.

"Hermione?" She didn't answer when he said her name, just sank down onto the bottom step of the stairs leading up to the castle entrance, not bothering to dust it off or do anything to protect the brilliant white of her gown. And then she started shaking, her shoulders heaving as she clamped her mouth shut tight and buried her face in both hands.

Lost as to how to help her, Harry descended the stairs and knelt at her feet, placing a warm hand on each of her ankles. She looked how he often felt when waking from a nightmare. God, he was an arsehole. How had he never bothered to ask her how she was doing? How she was handling everything in her life after the war. Harry had nightmares, certainly, but now that Voldemort was gone, his own battles were essentially over as far as he was concerned. He was used to being an orphan, after all. He'd been one for seventeen years now.

But Hermione . . .

"Love?" he whispered. "Can you talk to me?"

"I—I—don't—shit!" she was gasping between every word and grinding her palms against her eyes furiously.

Biting his lip, he had an idea but worried that it might make things worse. Still . . . Harry cleared his throat and adjusted his posture before tightening his grip on her ankles. "Hermione, look at me right now."

She stilled, her breaths still coming in gasping waves as her hands dropped from her face and she stared at her own knees for a moment. Harry waited, feeling overwhelmed by the obvious power she had given him, and then, when the heaving of her shoulders had calmed and she looked up, he felt his own breath catch in his throat. Her eyes were still filled with tears and the moonlight at his back made them shine as she looked at him. And he could see that beneath the black streaks of makeup and the sheen of sweat that had broken out at her hairline, that she was _asking_ him for something.

It was like the first time he'd touched the Elder Wand and known it was his. The way the power coursed right through him, up his arm like a bolt of lightning and hitting his chest dead centre. It was overwhelming, heady and addictive, but altogether terrifying at the same time. Harry had known then that no one should have that kind of power.

The way Hermione looked at him gave him that same feeling. And no one deserved to have this. But there it was . . . and Harry knew he needed to tread carefully.

"What's wrong, Hermione?" he finally asked quietly, taking another brief look around to make sure they were still completely alone. "Can you please tell me how I can . . . Can you just tell me what's going on?"

"I—" her voice sounded vaguely hollow and she glanced down for a moment, as if she were trying to detach herself from whatever feelings had sent her into a panic.

"I miss them," she said when she tried again. Her eyes met his as she finished the confession and her whole face twisted in pain. "I miss them so much!" And then she was crying, tears slipping down her cheeks like memories into a pensieve.

Harry released her feet and moved to her side swiftly, pulling her into his arms and wrapping her in what he hoped was a cocoon of safety. Pressing his lips to her temple, he whispered, "Of course you do." He didn't know exactly how she was feeling, not really. He missed his own parents, of course, but he also had no memories of them, and only missed them in terms of missing the idea of having parents at all. Hermione, on the other hand, had a whole life with her loving, devoted family, only to have it torn away from her in an instant.

"I don't deserve to."

The declaration was so soft he almost missed it.

Shocked at her words, he almost questioned what he'd heard before asking, "What? Hermione, of course you deserve to miss them. They're your parents."

She didn't answer for almost a minute, just let her head rest against his shoulder as thestrals called to one another at the edge of the forest nearby and she matched her breathing to the sound.

"I killed them," she said at last, and her voice sounded more steady.

"Hermione—" Harry began to stop her, shocked, but she interrupted him to continue.

"Not physically… but the people they were. The lives they led. They loved me, and I killed them. I murdered them with a wave of my wand. I didn't even—I didn't even take more than a few days to think about it, Harry. I was so stupid, so prideful. I thought I could… I didn't know that it couldn't be undone. I killed them so that I could feel better about running off to play hero."

_I did this to her_ , was the first thought that entered Harry's mind. No, he couldn't make this about him. Hermione's heart was broken, and it was Harry's job, his responsibility, his _duty_ , to help her. Still, he knew that she never would have had to make that choice had it not been for helping him.

He swallowed down the bile in his throat that had been developing since the first sob that escaped her lips, and he placed a hand on her cheek. "You're not a killer," he whispered. "You know that. Logically, you know that." She tried to avert her gaze but he touched her chin with a single finger, redirecting her focus back to him. "Your parents are gone, but they're alive. You didn't kill them any more than I . . ." He paused, closing his eyes and forcing himself to believe the words as they left his mouth, "Any more than I killed Sirius."

Her gaze broke open.

"You didn't have anything to do with Sirius's death! You were fifteen!" She sounded offended on his behalf.

"He went to the Ministry because of me," Harry stated. "He _died_ protecting me. Just like my parents. Just like . . . Hermione, everyone that died in this war did so because Voldemort wanted me. But you? You saved your parents who were genuinely in danger. You did what the rest of us couldn't." He pressed his forehead against hers. "I can't imagine how hard this is for you . . . and I don't want to make it worse, but if I'm being honest, I wish I could have sent Sirius away for his own good. I wish I had been as strong as you."

She had kept her eyes on him during his entire speech, but at the praise she blinked, turning to stare off toward the forest. Her breathing had calmed as they'd spoken, but Harry didn't make the mistake of thinking his words had convinced her. She still had that look on her face, the very Hermione one that told him she thought he was wrong but was too polite to say so.

"Your parents," she said, her voice nearly a whisper again. "Sirius? They died _loving_ you, Harry… Mine will die not knowing I exist." She turned to look at him again and she was forcing a smile. "Do you—I don't really want to talk about it anymore. Can we go back in?"

Harry sighed. He wanted to help her, but he knew he wasn't in a place to figure out how to convince her of the truth. She was stubborn, and worse, she was smarter than him and _knew_ it.

Resigned to leaving it, for the time being, Harry asked, "What can I do to make you happy again?"

She laughed, and though the sound was almost hollow, he could sense a small amount of amusement there as well.

"Take me to my room and fuck the melancholy out of me?"

He let out a defeated, empty laugh and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Nice try," he muttered. "But I'm not fucking you tonight. When we do, it'll be perfect."

She pretended to pout and then leaned in to press her cheek against his shoulder again, taking a deep breath, as if she wanted to breathe _him_ in. "You're a tease, Harry Potter. I ought to tell _that_ to all the fifth years mooning over you."

Groaning, Harry ran his nose against her hair and said, "Keep bringing up those bratty fifth years, and I'm going to start treating _you_ like one of them."

She gasped again, but this time in mock horror. "You wouldn't dare."

"Stop trying to provoke me," he said, grinning at her. "Now come on. I'm owed at least one dance with you in this dress before I think about doing horrible things to it." He paused and held his hand out to her. "If that's what you want, of course."

She looked so relieved at the suggestion he felt relieved himself. "Yes, please," she answered, and though she looked like she was trying to sound brave and worldly and flippant, he could still sense the sadness there beneath it all, could still feel her embarrassment at having broken down in front of him. "I'll need a stiff drink, too. I think Ginny said something about bringing Firwhiskey when we spoke last night."

Harry rolled his eyes as he helped Hermione back to her feet. "Please do me a favour and don't drink anything Ginny gives you. Who knows what George convinced her to sneak into Hogwarts." He grinned when she smiled up at him. "I really don't want to spend the rest of the night trying to figure out how to navigate your body if it's covered in feathers or something."


	10. Chapter 10

The Great Hall and the crush of dancing bodies within felt foreign to Hermione when they reentered. The coolness of the night outside had been freeing in a way . . . it had made her exterior match the interior. Cold. Icy. Numb. Here though, the heat of the ecstatic, dancing bodies made her feel again, made her acknowledge the revelry and the pure joy surrounding her. It made her feel guilty, both for being there where she was expected to be happy and for not being happy when others expected she should be . . . when she _wanted_ to be.

They started with the punch. Harry tasted it first to make sure it hadn't already been spiked and, finding it clean, passed it to her. She drained the first cup immediately, letting the cool liquid settle in her stomach before turning back to Harry. He already had a second waiting for her and an amused smile on his lips. She took it gratefully and turned to look over the Hall.

There was no live band this year, but the music thrumming through the room was loud and vibrating and enough to shake the centrepieces on the tables around the dance floor with the beat. She could barely hear herself think and didn't hear Harry's voice until he leant in close, one hand settled possessively on the small of her back as his mouth moved just over the shell of her ear.

"Want to dance?" he asked her.

She could feel his lips brush against her earlobe and shivered in anticipation. She hadn't been joking when she'd told him she wanted to be fucked senseless. She wanted nothing more than to be writhing beneath him, to feel him moving above her, around her, _inside_ her . . . But Harry was too much of a gentleman to take her now, when it was clear she'd been . . . emotionally compromised. And she hated that. She hated that she'd let Slughorn's comment get to her, hated that any time her parents were mentioned she fell to pieces, hated that she let herself _feel_ so damned much when it was all her fault in the first place.

"Let's go!" she shouted over the music, shaking her head to try and push the thoughts away and then draining her drink before setting it onto the table beside them. If he wasn't going to distract her with sex, she'd just have to settle for dancing until she had blisters.

She dragged him onto the dance floor, holding his hand like she'd done a thousand times before and then melting against him as he pulled her close, one hand on her hip. The music pulsed in the air around them, shimmering, magical light dancing through the air above in time to the beat. She didn't recognise the song, but it was loud and heavy and sounded a bit like the Weird Sisters if Celestina Warbeck had been writing their lyrics.

_Not forgetting all the chills,  
_ _But I'm only here for thrills.  
_ _Baby don't ask me, I won't stay,  
_ _Twist me turn me don't you beg.  
_ _Cast your spell or leave me be,  
_ _Don't you think I should be free?_

She let the words wrap around her, closed her eyes and jumped until her feet ached and she couldn't feel sad or anxious or panicked anymore, because the only sensation in the world was the beat of the music and the feel of Harry's hand gripping her hip, moving her in time with him, against him. They danced for what felt like ages, until she was breathless and caught up in the moment, and she could feel not just the music, but the _magic_ as it sparked around them. Between them.

And then, just as she was about to cry off and beg for a breather, the music slowed. Her heart was galloping in her chest as Harry used that hand on her hip to pull her close before wrapping his arm around her waist and pressing the other hand to her chin. He tilted her face up toward his gently but without leaving her any other option.

He was smiling as he started to move to the music, swaying with her from side to side. His hair had escaped whatever spell he'd put on it and was a mess again. Somehow, he always managed to look as if he had just gotten off a broom, and though she didn't enjoy Quidditch overly much, on him it was bloody attractive.

Content, Hermione returned the smile and then leant in, resting her cheek against his shoulder as they danced, noting how tall he'd become. She was in heels and she still didn't match his height. Perhaps it was just that she was short, even for a woman, but she thought not. And she liked that. She liked that he felt solid against her, a fortress ready to do battle and stand between her and anything that threatened to do harm. She liked that, in his arms, she felt cared for . . . _Cherished_. And she knew it was only temporary, that eventually, someone would come along that took his breath away and made him want to spend a whole lifetime with her . . . But tonight she would let herself forget that.

She wove both hands into the front of his dress robes, leaning further into him, and let her lips trace over his neck for a moment, let her tongue dart out to do the same. She felt bold, here on the dance floor, bolstered by the energy surrounding her, by the relative anonymity of being just one couple in the crush of bodies.

"You're so sexy," she heard herself murmur as if someone else were uttering the words. She couldn't believe how brazen she sounded. Her voice had taken on a husky quality, and as she pulled slightly back, she could see she'd left a bit of the bright red lipstick smeared onto the crisp white of his collar. She wanted it to stay there, wanted every other woman and every fucking besotted fifth year in the room to see it and know he was there with _her_.

"Careful," Harry teasingly warned in that voice that he seemed to reserve just for her, "anyone could see you right now if they bothered to really look."

Emboldened despite the tone he'd taken, she let one of the hands which had been tangled in his robes trail down, skating under the thick fabric and over the hard lines of his abdomen and the white cotton that covered skin she knew to be oh so touchable. She stopped at his belt, taking her fingers and running them just along the top of it, letting him feel the pressure through his shirt.

He chuckled and pulled her closer, twirling her around to prevent anyone from gawking. "Trying to show off that Gryffindor bravery, Hermione?"

His amusement thrilled her, and she let her fingers slip beneath the belt. "Don't need to try," she said, "You already know I'm plenty courageous." And then she muttered a quick, wandless spell that had his belt loosening just enough to allow her hand the rest of the way down his trousers.

Green eyes widened dramatically, and she was almost certain that he was trying not to yelp in absolute shock. Instead, he pulled her closer again, trapping her hand between them. "Hermione," he said, clearing his throat and leaning down until his lips touched her ear. "Are you trying to take control here?" His words were obviously a question, but they almost sounded like a threat—or perhaps a challenge.

She wrapped her hand around him. He was already thick and heavy beneath her touch and she felt his hips jerk just slightly forward as she gave his length a single, slow pump.

"No," she breathed, laying her head on his shoulder again as her hand stilled and trying her best to look innocent. "I'll do whatever you tell me to."

Harry rested his head gently on top of hers, the two of them looking like the perfect picture of innocent love—considering her hand and his erection were well-hidden.

"Well, I don't plan on coming right here in front of everyone," Harry said with a dark chuckle. "So you're going to need to tell me what it is that you really want to do right this very moment, and I'll think about giving it to you." He paused, kissing the top of her head affectionately. "If you're very good."

She let out a long, shaking breath against his lapel, her hand tightening involuntarily on his cock. What did she want? She wanted him. Wanted him everywhere. All the time. Wanted to forget everything but the feel of his mouth on hers, the feel of his tongue on her skin. The sound of his voice, dark with pleasure and command.

"Want you to take me somewhere we won't be seen. Want to suck you." God, she wanted to suck him. Wanted him hot and hard in her mouth, his taste on her tongue . . . at the back of her throat.

Even over the heavy music, she could hear the way he cleared his throat in surprise at her bold candour. He was then silent for a long time, swaying to the music and breathing steadily against her. It wasn't very long before she felt him begin to slightly soften in her hand, and then she realised that he was concentrating very hard to do so.

"Let me go," Harry said, adjusting his robes to block anyone from seeing her pull her hand from his trousers. When she did, her fingertips grazing along his skin on the way up, Harry touched the necklace resting in the hollow of her throat, and he smiled. "Well, you know how I really enjoy giving you things."

"Yes," she breathed, her heart racing as they both stilled there at the centre of the dance floor, staring at one another. Her hand was still warm and she raised it to her throat without thinking, fingering the chain his gaze was still riveted on. "Does that mean I get what I asked for?"

"Maybe," Harry said with a smile, sweetly caressing her cheek with his hand. He licked his lips thoughtfully before suggesting, "Or maybe I'll make you beg for it."

The desire which had settled low in her belly shot immediately southward, and she felt the scrap of lace she wore beneath her dress go damp with arousal.

"Whatever you want, Harry," she said, because it felt right and real. It was realer than anything else in her life, this _need_ she had to please him, to give him what he wanted and then find new ways to give him things he didn't even know he desired. "I'll beg here, if you want."

Harry scoffed. "And let everyone else hear what's only mine?" He grabbed her hand and squeezed it tight. "Let's get out of here."

She didn't say anything in response, just smiled so wide her face almost ached with it and felt her thighs slipping together as he led her through the throng of couples and toward the exit. As they went, she couldn't help but thrill as dozens of eyes trained on them, noting their flight from the Hall. This time, their gazes didn't bother her, they told her she was the luckiest girl in the room.

* * *

It wasn't as though he'd been thrilled about going to the Ball in the first place, of course. And Hermione had seemed awfully excited about the idea of leaving. Still, as Harry practically raced through the halls of the castle, desperately searching for somewhere private, he let all the events of the night wash over his mind. Regardless of her actions, Harry needed to know that Hermione was okay. That this was what she really wanted.

How to get the truth out . . . well, that would be interesting.

Once out of sight of any lingering students in the corridors, Harry spun Hermione into the first room he came upon. It was empty and silvered with moonlight that filtered in from a high window, and he didn't give a fuck that it was Filch's office, because Hermione was there, and she needed him. He kicked the door shut behind him and licked his lips at the sight of her. She was perfect. Everything from her hair to her dress to the exact outline of red on her lips. Gods, he wanted to ruin it all and have her leaving the room an absolute mess.

But he needed to keep his head clear for now.

"Come here," Harry said with a grin, crooking his index finger at her and summoning her toward him with it. With his other hand, he patted the stone wall next to him. "Lean back against this wall. Hands up."

She did as she was told, settling against the wall with her arms raised high overhead, the slit of her dress gaping indecently as she spread her thighs to accommodate the stance. She was breathing hard, and every single move had her breasts swelling up enough to give him a glimpse of them over her fitted bodice.

Harry let her linger there for several long moments, watching as each second ticked by, all marked by an old clock on Filch's desk. The longer he waited, the more he could see her body tense with anticipation and need.

And then he was on her, hands covering hers and pinning them to the wall. The erection he'd done his best to get rid of in the Great Hall was thick again, pressing hard against her. "We're going to play a game," he whispered. "Where you tell me the truth. And if you lie to me, you know that I'll know it, don't you?" he asked her, staring deep in her eyes.

He watched as her gaze widened and she nodded once.

"Yes, Harry."

He squeezed her wrists tighter and rubbed his groin against her harder, teasing her with what she said she wanted. "Do you know what I'll do if you lie to me?"

Hermione shivered and shook her head, her curls bouncing around her, brushing over her chest, sticking to her cheeks. Beneath him, she arched upward, as if she were seeking out the heat and the hardness of him. He felt her legs splay just a little wider.

"Mmm," Harry moaned, pressing his nose against her neck. "God. I think one day I'm just going to tie you up and do unspeakable things to you. For hours."

She whimpered and her hips jutted towards his as her wrists strained beneath his grasp.

Pressing his lips to her throat, he sucked on her skin until she made noises that fed his ego and made it so that he could actually feel his heartbeat in his cock. "But if you lie to me tonight, I'm going to punish you. Can you handle that?"

"Yes. Merlin, Yes. I want you—Need it!"

"Greedy," he moaned into the hollow of her throat, biting down on the chain necklace a little and tugging softly. "Hermione, love, if you lie to me," he said as he pulled away to look once again in her eyes, "I'm sending you back to your room with nothing. And you're not even allowed to make yourself come. Am I clear?"

He thought she might have said yes, but her words were almost incoherent as she strained against him, _toward_ him. She looked wild with wanting, and he felt the urge to smack her arse until she paid attention properly.

"Clear," she managed to say at last, though her eyes were fogged over with lust.

"Good girl," he whispered. "Now, tell me what you want right this second."

She cried out as he kissed his way from her throat up to her ear, and her hands fisted above her, nails digging into the side of one of his hands.

"You!" she begged, and the pleading sounds she made were better than a stadium full of Quidditch fans chanting his name. "I want you so much, Harry."

His heart pounded at her words. She'd not begged for his cock like he thought she would have. She just said _him_. He knew she meant his body and what he could do to her, but he imagined she meant it in other ways—the ways he truly wanted.

"Are you okay?" he asked her seriously, slightly loosening his grip on her wrists. "After everything tonight?"

"I—" He could tell that her urge was to say yes, to claim everything was fine. That was Hermione, she was the one who solved everyone else's problems . . . she didn't like being a burden herself. He watched her war with herself, watched her expression sober slightly as she panted and looked up at the ceiling, avoiding his gaze.

"No," she said at last, her voice hoarse and quiet. "But I'm never okay. Not about that."

Harry sighed in relief despite her answer. He was just glad she hadn't tried to lie to him or hide it. He wanted to help her, but he was clueless on where to even begin. He wasn't exactly the poster boy of emotional wellness. Often quite the opposite. But Merlin, he just wanted to make her happy, even for a moment.

"What can I do?" he asked.

"Make me forget I'm not all right." Her answer came so quickly he knew she meant it . . . Craved it. And then she was looking at him, her dark eyes pleading, her mouth slightly parted as she slid one of her thighs up over his hip and back down again. "Please."

Letting go of her wrists with one of his hands, he used the other to touch the thigh she'd possessively wrapped around him, his fingers dipping under the slit and moving higher and higher until he felt the soft crease between her thigh and hip.

And then Harry thought to himself, _I'm not okay either_.

But he kissed her and realised that, somehow, the taste of her made him forget.

Who was he to deny her the same relief?

His fingers inched down to the inside of her thigh and the dress resisted, so he pulled her thigh up higher, grinning against her mouth at the satisfying sound of the fabric ripping. When she wasn't so drunk on lust, he figured she might actually scold him for that. He was truly looking forward to it. With easier access, Harry pressed his hand against her knickers, groaning into her mouth when he could feel the dampness of the cloth.

"God, Hermione," he said, breaking their kiss. "How long have you been like this?"

"Since I started playing with your belt," she admitted.

"Poor little witch," he whispered, rubbing the heel of his hand against her. "So needy and wet this whole time." He moved in for another kiss, but when she leant in as well, he pulled back, grinning and refusing to let their lips touch. "How have you managed it? It must have been hell."

"Harry, _please_!" She arched her back, seeking more pressure, and leant forward to try and kiss him again.

He moved back once more, making a _tsking_ sound with his tongue. "We're still playing my game, Hermione, and you've stopped answering my questions," he reminded her, feeling elated with how frustrated she suddenly looked. "How were you able to manage having your knickers so wet for me this whole time?"

She moaned and he felt her try to squeeze her thighs tight around his hand. "It was hell," she admitted. "Wanted you touching me. Wanted to touch myself."

Harry let out a breath, making a mental note to have her show him later. "Like this?' he asked, dipping his fingers beneath the fabric and lightly touching her pussy. He could feel his own magic tingling at his fingertips, wishing she could feel it too.

"Yes," she breathed, but then she hesitated as if she wanted to say more but had thought better of it.

Catching the look in her eyes, Harry circled her clit with his thumb, doing his best to control his own breathing. "What is it?" He circled again. "Tell me."

"Harder," she begged. "More . . . pressure."

He breathed in deep. As badly as he wanted to just ruin her, she was obviously doing her level best to utterly wreck him. He did as she requested, pinching the skin above her clit like he had done before, but not nearly enough to make her come like that first time. She cried out at the sensation.

"I forgot. You don't like soft and sweet, do you? Which is a shame, because you _taste_ soft and sweet." He punctuated his words by biting down on her bared neck just hard enough to hold her still.

"Like it—Like it like—This." She was practically stuttering as she seemed to force herself to answer him, force herself to play the game he'd given her the rules of. And when Harry let his teeth sink down just a bit harder, she jerked violently against him, trying to pull her hands down, as if she wanted to pull him closer still.

"Please," she said, "Want to touch you too. Let me touch you."

Harry released her throat, kissing the imprint of his teeth in her skin. "Merlin, you beg so pretty." He stopped touching her centre, reaching his free hand up to release one of hers. Taking her wrist in hand, he lowered it between them, letting her feel the outline of his cock. She groaned. "Don't be greedy and grab. I just wanted you to see what you've done to me wearing this tight little dress and soaking those knickers so nicely."

She moaned again, and the sound made him pulse against her hand. "Harry, please. I want to taste you. Want you in my mouth. Been thinking about it all evening. Touched myself to it before I got dressed."

Licking his lips, Harry asked, "Did you come?"

She hesitated. She was clearly thinking about lying to him, and the thought made him grin in anticipation of her answer.

"Yes," she admitted at last, looking guilty as she glanced at him through her thick lashes.

"Without me there to watch," he stated, shaking his head but still grinning. He pressed the palm of her hand harder against his erection. "Did you just rub your clit? Or put your fingers inside?"

"Oh God."

"I've had my fingers inside of you," Harry whispered against the shell of her ear, using her hand to rub himself through his trousers. "But you're obviously more familiar with your own body. Do you think it'll fit well?" He pushed against her palm. "Maybe a little tight?"

Her hand stroked him from base to tip through the fabric as her pupils blew wide, almost swallowing her iris whole. "Maybe . . ." she swallowed. "Maybe we ought to find out?"

Harry let go of both of her hands, using his own to pull at her dress, baring the tops of her breasts to him. "You have no idea how badly I want to fuck you," he moaned, licking the exposed skin before biting it every few inches, all the way across her chest and leaving little dark red marks behind. "I swore I'd wait, but Gods . . . maybe, you think just the tip? That wouldn't count, would it?"

She shook her head frantically. "Wouldn't count," she echoed. _Begged_.

"No." Harry exhaled heavily against her cleavage, the skin there growing damp from his breath. "I can control myself. Besides," he stood up straight again, touching her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. "I did say if you begged for it, I'd let you have a taste."

She moved without permission, dropping to her knees in front of him. He watched as she settled, as she looked up at him with her eyes so wide and her lips parted—waiting for him. It made him feel strangely nervous. She looked powerful, _em_ powered even, but not as though she were trying to overpower him, which was a relief.

"Go on," he said, stroking her hair and then fisting both hands into the tresses, right near the crown. "Show me what you had in mind, Hermione."

She unbuckled his belt slowly, never taking her gaze from his as she worked, as her nimble fingers undid buttons and pulled down the fly before she leaned in and took the waistband of his pants in her teeth.

Harry clenched his own teeth in anticipation, glad that she was no longer looking up at his face. He had done his best to be confident for her, but it was taking everything in him not to shake with nervous excitement. Not even Ginny had offered him this before, but he wasn't about to reveal that particular lack of prowess. All he could do now was hope to Merlin that he could last more than a minute.

By the time she'd finished lowering his trousers and dragging his pants down to expose his erection, he was hard enough to cut steel, or at least it felt that way. But then, she leant in and he could feel her breath on the head of his cock, and he realised he could still be even harder.

"Been fantasizing about this for ages," she murmured, her gaze focused completely on his length. _Ages?_ Harry thought, his vision blurring slightly. "Thought about it for the first time last year. Couldn't tell you then, though. Got off to it in the tent while you were on watch."

_Oh fuck_. He leant forward against the wall behind Hermione, resting his forehead against the cold stone, contemplating banging his head repeatedly against it.

"Can I taste it?"

She had to know what she was doing. She _had_ to. She was Hermione Granger and she was _smarter_ than he was by leaps and bounds. She _had_ to know. Still, he managed to dryly swallow, choking on any verbal agreement that tried to slip up his throat. Instead, he nodded his head and then gently urged her forward with his hands still in the thick of her hair.

Her mouth on him was a revelation. It pulled all the air from his lungs in one single motion that made him light-headed and deliriously happy all at once. He very nearly laughed in delight, except when he opened his mouth, the noise that came out was a low groan of pleasure followed by a hoarsely whispered, "Fuck."

She seemed to like that, because next thing he knew she was sinking down over him, her lips wrapping around the base of his cock as her tongue fluttered on the underside, and he felt himself slip into the back of her throat.

His fingers loosened in her hair automatically as his vision tunnelled into one central focal point. Each exhale came out in time with her movements. When she pulled off for a moment and he heard her inhale, he felt relieved to know she was still breathing—and felt like an arsehole for not thinking of it before now.

"Where do you want to come?"

He wasn't sure he had heard her correctly at first, but when she repeated the question, his whole body shook with need and he gestured in no particular direction with his hands, hoping she'd just figure something out for him at this point. Did she really expect him to have full function of his brain right then?

"Maybe I need another necklace."

Harry nodded, not fully understanding as he mumbled, "I'll buy you whatever you want."

She looked confused for a moment and he could tell he had misunderstood somehow. Heat ran up the back of his neck and his whole body felt tense. Eventually, he just mumbled, "God, Hermione, don't stop."

She smiled like she'd won something, and then bent back to her task, taking him in her mouth again in one long stroke until he was buried balls deep and feeling like he'd never be able to think of anything other than this moment for the rest of his life. As a wizard, he knew he could live a long time too. And then she kept going. Over and over, up and down, her hair brushing against his thighs and her throat vibrating as she moaned on him like he was the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted.

With little preamble other than his thighs tensing and his fingertips touching the top of her head as he muttered, "Mi . . . Mi . . . I'm, I'm—" Harry came with a sizzling bit of magic running freely through his body. She pulled off of him after the first pulse, and he closed his eyes when he felt her hand replace her lips.

His breath eventually steadied to a complete halt as he moaned her name once more before falling forward, bracing against the wall with his forearms as his body went slack. Looking down, he saw her staring up at him, a fucking adoring expression on her face, with his come streaked across the tops of her exposed breasts. It was patterned there in contrast to her dark skin, amongst the love bites he'd previously left behind.

He wanted to savour it, wanted to drink in the sight of her on her knees, her breasts bared to him and bathed with his climax, but before he could, voices filtered in through the closed door of Filch's office.

"Oh fuck," Harry muttered, eyes wide as he reached for his wand, cleaning up Hermione's skin in an instant and narrowing his gaze at her when she dared to pout at him for it. "Get up. Hurry." Quickly, he tugged at his pants and trousers, righting himself as quickly as possible. If Filch caught them, there might be a way out of it, but if McGonagall was with him, Harry was a dead man. He didn't even think to Disillusion either of them before the door was already opening.

"You're sure he doesn't sleep in here?"

Harry's eyes widened at the sound of Lavender's voice, and he shared a panicked look with Hermione, but no sooner than she climbed to her feet, Ron stepped through the opening. Lavender's arms were draped over his shoulders, and Harry quickly realised that he was carrying the girl on his back.

"Nah," Ron said with a crooked grin. "In fact, I know that—Ah!"

"Shut up!" Harry yelled, slamming the door behind the other couple.

"What're you two doing here?" Ron demanded.

Silence took up residence in the room until Lavender cleared her throat and offered Harry and Hermione a sympathetic smile. "Um, Ronnie?"

"What?" Ron settled her on her feet and looked back at her, confused.

Harry groaned in embarrassment when he noticed Lavender delicately sniffing the air. She wasn't a full wolf, but . . . "Oh God."

"What?" Ron asked again.

Lavender looked politely at Hermione. "I won't say anything."

Harry glanced down at Hermione to see her cheeks had taken on the rosy tint they did when she blushed. "Thanks," she said, not daring to meet Lavender's eye.

Staring at the two of them, Ron eventually cringed and muttered, "Ew."

Harry punched him in the shoulder. "What were you two going to do in here?"

"Not _that_!" Ron insisted.

Lavender snorted indelicately and rolled her eyes in obvious disbelief.

Sighing, Harry looked at Hermione and asked, "You want to set birds on him, or should I?"

Hermione raised her wand.

Ron pointed a finger at them both and shouted, "Rude!"

Harry laughed.


	11. Chapter 11

The term ended with little fanfare, and Hermione caught the train with Harry and Ron, not just for tradition's sake, but because the Headmistress had insisted it was mandatory. If Hermione had had her way, she and Harry would have apparated immediately to Grimmauld Place where she'd have stripped herself naked and dangled herself in front of Harry until he had broken down and made love to her.

Unfortunately, Hermione had _not_ gotten her way. She'd gotten a compartment with Harry beside her, running his thumb firmly over one of her wrists as he stared out the window, and Ron and Neville digging into chocolate frogs opposite them.

And sexual frustration. She'd gotten litres of that.

She crossed her legs, sighing as she did so, and leant into Harry until her head was rested on his shoulder. Her thick side braid trailed down his upper arm and ended just past the short sleeve that strained over a bicep which hadn't been nearly so large a year ago. Merlin, had he started lifting weights when she wasn't looking? She bit her lip and averted her gaze as she felt her nipples go stiff. Thank God she'd worn a padded bra that morning. The last thing she needed was for Ron or Neville to notice that she was getting aroused just looking at Harry's muscles. She'd never live it down.

She sighed again, this time with her face turned in toward Harry's chest. She could smell the soap he used, and a hint of cologne he'd started wearing at some point that made her wild every time he did.

"Are you sniffing him?"

Hermione jumped, sitting up straight and yanking her arm from Harry's grasp in the process.

"What? No!"

Ron, who had paused in rifling through a stack of sweets to embarrass her, gave her a disbelieving look.

"What was all that sighing then?"

"Leave her be," said Neville, who was unwrapping a liquorice wand and looking very at ease. "I saw you with your face buried in Lavender's bosom two days ago. You're hardly one to talk."

Harry laughed and Hermione felt him wrap his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. The sensation was comforting, and she let herself be moved until she was nestled against his side once more and his fingers began trailing up and down her ribs on the opposite side.

"You saw that?" asked Ron, aghast.

"You're not very subtle, mate," said Harry. Hermione could feel his chest rumbling against her as he spoke and wanted to scream with frustration. Why couldn't they be _alone_ right now?

"You were in the middle of the common room," Neville agreed. "You're lucky most of the younger years were already in bed or McGonnogall'd have had words for you in the morning."

Ron's ears had gone red, but there was a confident little smirk on his lips as he said, "Well, at least I wasn't caught _canoodling_ in Filch's office."

"Piss off," said Hermione, glaring daggers at the ginger prat as he laughed and stuffed an entire handful of Bertie Botts Beans into his mouth. She hoped he choked on them.

"Filch's office? Really?" Neville sounded queasy.

"At least there was a door," said Harry, shrugging as Hermione tried to muffle her laugh in his shirt.

"Don't be gross," said Ron, mouth still half full of candy.

"You're welcome to leave," drawled Harry. His hand settled on Hermione's hip as he spoke, squeezing once and then tugging gently on her shirt, untucking it while the others were distracted sorting through yet more sweets and then settling his palm flat beneath her shirt, right there against the skin of her waist. She stilled at the sensation, trying with all her might to keep her breaths steady.

Ron, who had just picked out another chocolate frog, stood and turned a cocky glance in Harry's direction. "Actually, I told Lav I'd come check in on her before lunch. You two don't do anything indecent while I'm gone."

Hermione gave him the most withering look she could muster.

"Like getting intimate in the common room?" she asked.

"Like giving Neville a heart attack," said Ron with a wink. "Keep it PG for the virgin, alright?"

"Hey!" Neville exclaimed, "I never said I was a—"

But Ron was out the compartment door before he finished the sentence, and he was left blushing in his seat, a pile of sweets at his side.

"I'm not," he said after several awkward moments, catching first Harry's eye and then Hermione's. "Not that it matters. But I'm _not_."

"Really not our business," said Harry, who Hermione noticed was managing to keep a straight face, but only just. His hand on her waist tightened almost imperceptibly.

But Neville's cheeks just grew pink and he took a bite out of his Licorice wand, chewing it before continuing as if he couldn't help himself. "Last year," he said. "In the Room of Requirement. Bloody hell." He stuffed the entire wand in his mouth.

"You staying with your Gran over the hols?" Hermione asked, desperate now for a change of subject.

Neville nodded, finishing his bite. "Yeah. She wouldn't have it any other way."

Hermione was about to comment on how nice that must be, but before she could get the words out, Harry's hand on her waist stroked upward beneath her shirt, not enough to draw attention, but more than enough to make all of her attention zero in on the warmth of his skin against hers.

"You all got any grand plans for Christmas?" she heard Harry ask as his fingers brushed up against the bottom of her ribs. She missed Neville's answers completely, as she shivered pleasantly and trained her gaze on the window, watching the loch outside carefully, waiting for him to move his hand again.

She wasn't sure how long they chatted for, but before long Neville had a book open on his lap and the only sound she could hear in the compartment was the beating of her own heart. Harry's hand had trailed back down, leaving her shirt untucked but settling over the fabric of her skirt. She didn't know why she'd worn the uniform onto the train, Harry and Ron had both worn their muggle clothes, but as his hand tugged at the fabric, raising it up above her knees a few inches as his gaze settled on her legs, she was very glad she had.

"Harry?" she breathed his name up into his ear and watched as his mouth curved into a subtle smile.

The skirt rode up another inch and she pressed her knees together.

Neville was right there, three feet away. She shouldn't be allowing this, shouldn't be _excited_ by Harry's eyes on her legs as he bared them inch by inch while their friend sat distracted so close by.

But she was. Circe above, she was.

"You've got lovely legs," he said, the words low enough to be just hers.

She kept her gaze riveted on Neville as she felt Harry pull the skirt up a bit more, as the cool air on the train caressed the tops of her exposed thighs, giving her gooseflesh and making her nipples even tighter in the push-up bra she'd donned.

"Spread them for me. Just a little."

_Jesus fucking hell_.

Neville was going to see. He'd finish his chapter and look up and she'd be sitting there, legs spread, skirt indecently high as Harry whispered filthy things in her ear. And she didn't care.

The cool air swept against her inner thighs and she bit her lip hard, not daring to make a single sound or move even a millimetre. And then, because she'd been knocked on the head during the war and danger had become _exciting_ to her, she felt herself beginning to soak her knickers.

Beside her, Harry groaned, and the next second her skirt had been drawn back down to her knees and Neville looked up, curious.

"Everything all right?"

Harry grunted out a yes, his voice hoarser than normal, and then he asked, "Where'd Luna end up? I thought you two normally sat together?"

Neville blushed and Hermione realized her thighs were still slightly parted before pressing them tightly together. The sensation made her ache.

"She's sitting with Ginny and Parvati, I think."

"No," said Hermione suddenly, "I saw them with Lavender a few compartments down."

The embarrassed expression Neville had been wearing faded at that, and he suddenly looked more confident.

"Maybe I'll look for her then," he said, snapping the book shut on his lap and then tucking it into the bag at his feet. The sweets were swept into it next and then he was standing. "Be back in a bit," he said. Harry waved with one hand, but Neville's gaze was trained on the door. He looked eager and Hermione wondered if Luna might be the one he'd spent time with in the Room of Requirement.

He shut the compartment door behind him, and in another moment she heard Harry say, " _Colloportus_ ," and then the bolt on the inside of the door slid shut.

"Finally," she breathed. She turned in her seat, looking eagerly up at Harry. Merlin, he was handsome. His green eyes were sparkling with amusement and he was running a hand over his bearded jaw.

"Eager, are we?" he said, not moving yet to touch her again. And because she _was_ eager, and she knew that pressing the issue would only lead to him torturing her with a longer wait, she kept her hands where they were, folded tightly around each other in her lap.

"I hate that we had to take the stupid train," she confessed, letting her thighs part again as she leant toward him just a bit. Her skirt rode up on her thigh as she pulled one knee up to press against the outside of his leg and faced him more fully. Harry kept his gaze carefully on her face.

"I couldn't tell," he said dryly.

That made her cross and she felt herself beginning to pout.

"You're still a terrible tease, you know," she said, crossing her arms and scooting back to sit far enough from him that she wasn't tempted to reach out and unzip his trousers.

Harry chuckled and moved closer to her. "Not planning on running off too, are you?"

Like hell she was. The minute she walked away from Harry, she would know she'd lost her mind.

"Thinking about it," she said, trying to keep her face straight and glancing at him from under her lashes before looking at the door.

With her eyes trained away from him, she could feel the brush of his fingers against her cheek and the gentle way he adjusted her braid, tucking little strands of hair behind her ear with it. "Want me to chase you?"

How did he always know exactly what she needed to hear? What would make her pulse race and her breaths uneven? She looked back at him, felt him cup her cheek fully. "I'm a terrible runner," she confessed. "May as well just stay here."

He looked thrilled by the idea even as he placed his other hand on her thigh. "How long do you think Ron and Nev will be?"

"An hour? Tops."

"Well, unless you've got some reading to do, I can come up with a few things to pass the time," he offered, giving her leg a squeeze. The hand touching her hair trailed down, fingering the collar of her blouse until Harry began lightly scratching at the top button with his fingernail. She shivered.

"Can you believe I forgot my books in my room?" she said.

Leaning toward her, Harry brushed his lips against her jaw. "You don't say," he whispered, letting his beard gently scratch against her skin as he made his way down her neck. "I wonder how you plan on spending the entirety of Christmas hols without your books."

"I trust you to keep me entertained," she said, her voice thick as she swallowed down the building desire enough to actually form words. "I'm sure you're a fabulous host."

The hand on her thigh began to move up until his fingertips traced along the bottom edge of her knickers. "I'll keep you busy enough," he said, sounding very sure of himself as his teeth grazed her earlobe and sent little electric pulses skating over her skin and down to her chest. "But maybe I should have you be the one to do all the entertaining. You hold my attention well enough."

"I can—" she had to take a deep breath in the middle of her sentence. She was already getting light headed and he hadn't even kissed her yet. "I think I can help with that . . . I wouldn't want to be a poor guest."

"Mmm," Harry moaned, pressing kisses down from her ear until he reached the corner of her mouth. "You'll definitely earn your keep," he said before pressing his lips against hers.

The way he kissed her was incendiary. It had been since the first explosive collision in her bedroom, the night she'd refused to put her shirt back on. And thank God for that, for her stubbornness that night. Without it, she'd be repressed and probably reading in a corner somewhere. And while reading was _fine_ , it was nothing compared to this. Nothing to Harry's tongue sweeping over hers. Nothing to his fingers undoing the top buttons of her shirt and his hand reaching in to cup her breast, fitting snugly between her flesh and the white bra she wore. And _nothing_ in comparison to the way she felt when he took one nipple between this thumb and forefinger, pinching it and rolling it until she was gasping into his mouth.

"You still want it?" Harry asked, pinching her nipple harder. "Might hurt a little."

She whimpered, because it already hurt a little, and that pain was going straight to her clit, making it throb with need.

"Fuck, yes," she said, breathing the words against his beard as he groaned.

"Get over here," Harry ordered, tugging on her thigh and hip, adjusting her until she was straddling his lap, her thighs spread on either side of his narrow hips. The train continued moving along, bumping here and there and sending a push of his firm cock against her knickers. She whimpered into his mouth and tried to press forward against him, tried to increase the delicious friction. But Harry kept one hand firmly on her arse, keeping her still.

Breathing heavily as he broke their kiss, Harry cupped her breast again. "I feel a little guilty over what I plan on doing to them," he said. "Maybe it would be polite if I kissed them better ahead of time?"

She only moaned in reply, reaching up to undo the rest of her buttons and unclasp the front closure of her bra. Looking down, she could see herself displayed for him, see the way her pleated skirt spread over the tops of his thighs beneath her breasts, hiding the way they were pressed together from her view. She wondered . . . Could she reach a hand down and work his trousers open? If she did, would he slide her knickers to the side and let her skirt hide what she would do to him after?

The moment she dared to look at Harry's face, she saw a dark hunger in his green eyes, and as quick as a snake, his mouth was on her. Lips wet, tongue moving over the peak of her breast, and teeth biting down as he made hungry growling noises with every little bite of her. When she made a particular noise of her own, he would change his movements—less biting and more suction, but one never softer than the other. By the time he pulled away with a wet pop, her skin was freckled with love bites and little developing bruises around her nipple.

Harry pressed himself up against her once again, making her throb and biting his lower lip as his eyes closed in concentration.

"Hermione," he moaned her name, "are you . . . are you certain that you want to keep doing this? Because we've been getting a little ahead of ourselves lately—" another delicious grind against her cunt "—and I feel like we're headed to a place where we can't come back from if we keep moving toward it."

She knew she should answer him, that she should think about the question he'd posed . . . but she didn't want to. Not here, not when everything in the world felt _right_ in his arms, on his lap.

In answer, she traced her own fingers up beneath her skirt, reaching down to the sides of her panties before she cast a quick, wandless _Diffindo_. The charm worked just as she'd hoped, and she was able to pull the scrap of lace off of herself completely. She could see Harry's eyes on her as she did, could feel his heart beating in his chest.

"I know exactly what I want," she said, dropping the scrap of fabric onto the seat beside them and leaning in to pepper his cheeks with kisses. "I want you, Harry. Want this." She let herself grind down against him again, and she didn't even feel mildly guilty at the thought of soaking the front of his trousers. "Now, if you'll let me."

Harry stared deeply into her eyes as though he were searching for something there, but then he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and drew her mouth back down to his for a short, almost chaste kiss. "I won't let you," he whispered, pulling away. "I don't plan on fucking you in a train car. I told you, Hermione, we'll be in a bed. Soon."

But then he shifted her back slightly, enough to allow him to reach for his own buckle. Her heart stuttered in her chest. Merlin, he looked sexy when he did that.

"The next time you're on my lap like this," he began telling her as he drew down his zip and reached into his trousers, withdrawing his cock, "I'll be inside of you. But for now," he said with a little mischievous grin that was essentially a positive DNA test result as to his Marauding parentage, "why don't you go ahead and rub yourself on my cock until you come."

Hermione groaned in satisfaction. She didn't give a shit about the bed, but if he was finally going to fuck her . . . to hold her close and lose himself inside of her the way he'd lost himself in her mouth after the Yule Ball . . . Christ, she'd wait however long he wanted. She needed this. Something inside her was _demanding_ it. And it wasn't just about the sex—she'd only ever been with one man in that way before, and she'd been perfectly fine with her hand since then—it was about Harry. The way he looked at her, the way he touched her . . . The filthy things he whispered in her ear when no one else was listening. There was something addictive about it all. About him. Something both intoxicating and comforting that made her crave him more than she'd ever craved anything.

It wasn't the _sex_ she wanted . . . It was Harry. All of him. Every glance, every caress. Every inch. And she wanted him to have the same from her.

There was a word for that type of desire, but she pushed it away, losing herself in Harry's kisses instead, letting herself grind down over him, against him. The smoothness of his cock was an addiction in and of itself, but pressed against her like that, coated in her and pulsing as she did as she had been told . . . it was a bloody religion. The only thing she believed in. Her fucking salvation.

She came apart against him, and as she shuddered there astride his lap and his mouth drank in her moans, she knew this was everything. _Harry_ was everything. And right now, he was hers.

* * *

As confident as Harry seemed on the train—and he _had_ felt so at the time—the moment Hermione came on his lap, Harry was tempted to do the same before he realised something: he didn't know the Contraceptive Charm, and even though they weren't having penetrative sex, their parts were awful close to one another. So instead, he bit down hard on his lip and let his body absorb the pain.

Walking off of the train at King's Cross was uncomfortable in so many ways.

Mostly because Mrs Weasley was there to greet them as always. She hugged everyone individually and then asked Harry if he planned on staying at the Burrow. He politely declined, feigning a need to work on cleaning up Grimmauld Place. When Mrs Weasley then asked Hermione if she wanted to return home to Ottery St Catchpole it was apparent that Ron's mother had no idea that Harry and Hermione were dating.

And for the time being, he wanted to keep it that way. Which was why the couple waited for the entire Weasley clan to depart before heading out into London.

Magically sending their trunks to Grimmauld Place, Harry and Hermione stepped away from the Wizarding world, thrilled when people stopped gawking in their direction as they recognised them. Once free and clear and surrounded by clueless Muggles, Harry took her hand with a grin.

"I need to hit the shop for a few things," Harry said, gesturing up at the Tesco across the street.

"Groceries?" Hermione asked, raising a brow.

Sighing, embarrassed, Harry admitted. "I don't know the charm. Er . . . Ginny always did it before we, y'know."

"Oh," Hermione replied, blinking rapidly.

"Unless _you_ know it?" Harry asked.

"No," she replied, looking embarrassed. "We didn't . . . He preferred the Muggle method."

Which was how Harry found himself in the market, staring at a row full of condoms amidst other supplies like lubrication, creams, special washes, massage oils, and shaving equipment. He'd asked Hermione to go and look for something to drink, maybe wine or champagne because Harry was pretty sure all Sirius had left behind at Grimmauld Place was firewhisky, and he thought that he'd prefer to be mostly sober the first time he had sex with Hermione.

He picked up a package and narrowed his eyes at it. _Ribbed for her pleasure_.

"I think I can handle it on my own, cheers," he muttered angrily before putting the box back and grabbing one that said: _Extra Safe_.

Shit. Were the regular ones _not_ safe? Wasn't that the whole bloody point?!

He was sure his head would start spinning any second. _Invisible, Sensitive, Extra Thin, Intimate Feel, Glow in the Dark_ , and _Blueberry Flavoured_. "This is mental," he grumbled, grabbing one that read _Mutual Climax_ before turning around sharply, desperate to get out of there and really wishing that he had bothered asking Sirius for advice like this when he'd had the chance.

Eyes focused on the box in his hands, Harry wasn't paying attention and accidentally ran into a nice old lady pushing her trolley. Jumping back and muttering a string of apologies, Harry bumped the rack behind him, sending boxes of condoms and vaginal cream scattering to the floor.

He panicked and made eye contact with the old lady, who pursed her lips and shook her head at him with an expression of complete and utter disapproval before she backed her trolley up and moved away from Harry as though he were a pervert.

"Shit," he muttered angrily, dropping to the floor and grabbing all of the boxes, restoring them to their place on the shelves as quickly as possible. When he grabbed a box of vaginal cream, he took a moment to read the back, cringing, and then tossing it down the aisle to get it away from him.

With a heavy sigh, he grabbed his box of condoms once more and then looked down, noticing he'd forgotten to pick up one fallen bottle of lubrication. Reaching down to pick it up, Harry blinked at the sight of familiar shoes right in front of him.

"You really think I'm going to _need_ that?"

He looked up at Hermione—who was smirking—narrowing his eyes a little at her for daring to kick him when he was down.

"Very funny," he said, shoving the bottle of lube onto a shelf that it didn't even belong on. "I've got the things. What'd you find?"

She held out a small basket brimming with wine and cheeses and little packages of sweets. "I thought we'd be fancy. Then I saw the chocolates. I've always had a weakness for the Muggle kind."

Harry looked in the basket and smiled. "Well, you had more success than I did. Unless you also offended an old lady and destroyed some shelves?"

She tried to muffle her laugh but Harry saw the way the corner of her mouth quirked upward. "Can't say I did. Need a hand up?"

Rolling his eyes and rising to his feet, Harry gave her a sarcastic laugh before throwing the box of condoms into her basket. Face up, it read: _Mutual Climax, Size: Small_.

Tilting his head back with a groan, Harry muttered, "We need to learn the charm."

"Yeah, not sure those will fit," said Hermione, and then she tilted her head to the side, looking thoughtful. "And maybe I ought to praise your cock a little more if that's the size you're grabbing for."

Looking back at her and ready to give her a good scolding, Harry's eyes widened. Behind Hermione, the old lady had returned with her trolley and was now staring at the both of them in horror. They might as well have been fucking in the middle of the shop.

"In for a Sickle, in for a Galleon," Harry muttered, grabbing the box with the appropriate size before tossing it in the basket. Then he looked back up at the now angry old woman, and waved at her before putting his arm around Hermione's shoulders as she began to giggle and directing her quickly to the cashiers.


	12. Chapter 12

Once they crossed the threshold of Grimmauld Place, the silence of the house was overwhelming. The only other time it had been so quiet was when the two of them and Ron had stayed there in hiding during the war. Even then, Kreacher was occasionally around making a fuss. But now the house-elf lived at Hogwarts, and the Order had all vacated entirely after helping Harry with a few repairs to the house over the summer. Even the portrait of Sirius's mother was silent now. After everyone, including Bill, the _actual_ curse-breaker, tried to get the painting down from the wall only to epically fail, it was Fleur who suggested that if the portrait was there due to a Permanent Sticking Charm, it only fell to reason that they could close her curtains with the same charm and keep the woman silent forever.

After setting down the supplies for dinner in the kitchen, they wandered upstairs in search of their trunks. Out of habit, Harry touched the closed door to Sirius's old room before ascending another staircase to where the guest rooms were.

He found his trunk by itself in the room he used to share with Ron, assuming that Hermione's had gone to the room down the hall that she had previously shared with Ginny.

Clearing his throat, Harry said, "When you find your things, you can put them away wherever you want."

He didn't want to assume that she would want to share a bed with him. Sex or not, Hermione had made it very clear that they were only using one another as a logical outlet of sorts, and he didn't want to make assumptions. Still, he left the option open for her, knowing his own desire to keep her as close to him as possible. He wasn't sure if it was leftover anxiety from being on the run with her, or if he was actually falling in love, but the idea of waking up in a bed next to a sleeping Hermione warmed something in his chest, leaving him both terrified and elated all at once.

"It might be easier if we room together," she said, her cheeks flushed. "For entertainment purposes."

He grinned at her reply, trying not to let it show that he felt a little disappointed in her answer. Sure he would get to wake up with her in the same bed, but she clearly had reasons that didn't match his own. "You won't have me complaining. Do you need help bringing your things in here? If not, I might stay and try to make the room a little more . . . livable."

"I've got it. I wanted to change out of these anyway." She gestured down at her skirt and button-up and then grinned at him. "Maybe into something a little more my age."

He laughed softly, eyeing her up and down. "As much as I appreciate the schoolgirl look, I agree," he said and reached up to tug at his Hogwarts' tie, only to remember that he'd changed before getting on the train. God, he must have looked like a complete lech when he'd gone into the market with Hermione in her little pleated skirt.

Once she had gone to find her trunk, Harry glanced around his bedroom and cringed. It looked like a dorm room, which made him feel all of twelve years old. Flicking his wand roughly, he outright banished the second four-poster bed, watching as it vanished into nothingness.

With more room to get around, Harry set to work on the rest of the furniture.

He enlarged the remaining four-poster, stripping the comforter and bedsheets and giving them a quick sniff; they were clean but had that stale scent of something that hadn't been used in months. He focused with his eyes shut tight, trying to remember a charm that Luna had once taught him, and a spell came out of his mouth sounding like gibberish, but just like that, the fabric smelled of lavender and honey. With a quick flick of his wand, the sheets placed themselves back on the bed, and the comforter followed.

Taking one last look at the room, Harry sighed. It would have to do. It was nice, of course, and looked very homey—considering the history of the house—but he couldn't help but wonder what the Durmstrang ship had looked like when Krum had taken Hermione there. Maybe there had been candles and rose petals? No. Krum didn't seem the romantic type. Then again, Harry hadn't actually been paying much attention back then. One thing he was sure of, was that there had to have been a bearskin rug.

"Wow, it's so cosy." Hermione's voice sounded pleased behind him.

As he turned and caught sight of her in the doorway, he felt more relaxed than he had in months. It was just the two of them alone—finally, in his home, living like real adults and not children in a castle or scared teenagers on the run. She was dressed in Muggle clothes, her hair swept up in a bun with ringlets escaping at the hairline and bare feet with toenails painted a subtle shade of pink. He thought it was funny that she'd often complained about Lavender and Parvati teasing her when they were younger about how very ungirl-like Hermione was. As far as he could tell, she wasn't covered in Cosmetic Charms or excessive jewellery, and she didn't have giant ornate butterfly clips in her hair like Parvati sometimes wore, but she was the very definition of feminine beauty as far as he was concerned. She was gorgeous.

"Really?" he asked with a smile.

"Yes. Are you sure this is the same room you and Ron shared?" She crossed over to the bed and pulled one of the curtains aside to peer within. "There's not a stray sock in sight." And then she smiled at him.

"I did my best to remove any sign of him," Harry said with a chuckle, shoving his hands into his pockets as he watched her explore the room. She stopped beside the dresser, pulling something small out of her pocket and setting it on the floor before enlarging it. It was her trunk, and with a wave of her wand, it unpacked itself, sending her neatly folded clothes into empty drawers and a small bag to settle on top.

"There," she said when she was done. "All unpacked." And then she leant back against the drawers, looking very pretty in her fitted t-shirt and low rise jeans as if she were waiting for him to tell her what came next.

His mind went to war with itself at the sight of her relaxing. Half of him could envision staying like this forever. Her clothes settled in right next to his, in a room they both shared, feeling comfortable and at ease in. The other part of his brain sent images scattering through his mind; ideas of what surfaces would be accessible for fucking her on, or where he could comfortably tie her up so she couldn't escape as he licked and fingered her until she cried in agonised delight. He had a sudden desire to explore the rest of the house, secretly wondering if she would be opposed to being secured to the rails of the staircase, naked and on display for him where anyone could just walk in at any time if Harry decided to take down the wards.

His voice almost cracked a little when he blurted out, "Food? Should we go food? I mean, make food. Downstairs?"

She smiled back at him, looking completely unaware he'd been considering defiling her. "I could eat."

Harry coughed into his closed fist, thinking, _I could too_ , as he looked her up and down.

But then she was standing up straight and coming toward him. She laced her hand in his and gave him a saucy look over her shoulder as she led him toward the door.

"You any good with cooking spells? The extent of what I'm capable of is making wild mushrooms somewhat edible."

It was adorable that she still thought her mushrooms had been edible. Harry had swallowed them down for the entire purpose of not starving, and nothing more. "I can cook," he said, thinking back to his childhood and trying not to wince at the thought. "I'm good at breakfasts," he added quickly. "Maybe tonight we just umm . . . You got a few things right?" he asked, remembering her basket brimming with chocolate. He let out a quick breath and ran his hand through his hair. "Or maybe just the wine?"

"We can make the cheese board," she said happily as they descended the steps toward the kitchen. She was slightly ahead of him and he could smell something sweet in the air as she passed. Had she put on perfume? "I don't know what sort of cheeses pair well with what sorts of wines, but I got a few of each. Have you ever tried Pinot Noir?"

It all felt very grown-up, but Harry did his best not to look or sound inadequate. He'd much prefer a good Sunday roast over cheese and wine, and he didn't know how to spell Pinot Noir let alone know which cheese it might work well with.

"No," he finally said, thinking of the toast they had all made at Shell Cottage to celebrate Teddy's birth, and then there was several cups that Aberforth had given them once they'd made it to Hogsmeade during the war. "Only kind I've ever tasted was pretty much just handed to me. Never did ask about it."

They reached the kitchen then and Hermione went to work on the bags of food, setting out chocolates and cheeses and an excessive amount of bottled wine all in rows.

Harry took one of the wine bottles and examined it. None of it was in English, and he frustratedly looked at the top, yanking on the cover until it peeled away to reveal not a twist-off cap but a cork shoved deep into the neck. Well, shit. "Umm . . . _Accio_ cork . . . thing? Corkscrew! _Accio_ corkscrew!"

Nothing happened.

Fuck.

"How is it possible that the Blacks didn't have one?" Harry muttered and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Okay, how about . . . Oh!" He grinned and aimed his wand at the bottle. " _Anapneo_!"

He knew that normally the spell was used to clear a person's airway, but this was basically the same thing. However, instead of the cork popping out with ease, the thing shot out of the neck of the wine bottle like a bullet, bouncing off of the ceiling before ricocheting through the nearest window, cracking it clean open. The noise was startling. In an effort to duck out of the way of the murderous cork, Harry dodged to the side, standing in front of Hermione, only to trip and drop the entire bottle onto the stone floor.

Hermione yelped as shattered glass spread out everywhere, pushed to the edges of the kitchen by the waves of good wine.

"Shit," Harry cringed. "Sorry, Hermione."

When he turned to check her over, she was wincing, her thumb pulled up to her mouth for a moment before she lowered it to inspect.

"Bloody hell," she said as blood welled over the pad of it.

Eyes widening at the sight of the blood, Harry mentally kicked himself for his idiocy. "Come here," he told her. "No, wait!"

Looking down at the mess he'd made, he remembered that she was still barefoot. Her toes were speckled with drops of red wine but looked uninjured. Thinking for a moment, Harry put an arm around her waist, dipping down until he could slip the other beneath her thighs, lifting her up easily into his arms.

"I cut myself on a bloody cheese knife," said Hermione, sounding vexed.

"Let's get you taken care of," he said, stopping to stare into her eyes. Her thumb was bleeding, the food was left behind, the wine was covering the floor, and yet she suddenly looked as though she couldn't care less. Harry swallowed, cleared his throat, and broke eye contact so that he could navigate over the broken glass and onto a portion of the floor that looked safe.

Despite Hermione being the one with the most Healing Charm knowledge, Harry smiled as she allowed him to wave his wand over her small cut once he'd set her feet on the ground. Clean and closed up, he brought the thumb to his lips and kissed the pad sweetly. "All better?"

"Yeah," she said. "Can't even feel it anymore." And then she smiled at him, running that same thumb over his lower lip as she let her gaze linger on it.

His heart began to race a little as he watched her every move. It was one thing to plan things out in the heat of the moment or when they were preoccupied with other things on their mind, but here and now, in his home, alone . . . Harry suddenly felt both excited and nervous all at once, like two parts of him warring with one another inside of his chest.

He just knew one important thing: he couldn't be bothered with dinner.

Harry kissed her thumb again and then tilted his head until her fingers were running through his beard. Licking his lips, he leant forward, gently kissing her and closing his eyes. He wanted this, wanted her, and though the fears still lingered in the back of his mind as to what could happen if this all went south, he knew he was too far gone on her to take even one step backward.

"Come to bed with me?"

"I thought you'd never ask." She looked so relieved Harry felt a weight on his own chest lighten.

Scooping her back up into his arms, Harry quickly but carefully took to the stairs, trying to get to his room as fast as possible so that he didn't have enough time to talk himself into being a complete nervous wreck.

Once through the open door, Harry set Hermione down on her feet and cleared his throat as he looked at the bed. The sheets were neatly pressed and tucked into their designated corners, and the comforter was precisely folded down at the top. He was terrifyingly eager to make a mess of it all.

With great speed, Harry had one hand in her hair and the other gently cupping her jaw as he pressed his mouth to hers, slowly backing her toward the bed. She let herself be moved, danced backward with him, betraying her keenness and making his heart pound. The moment was significant, serious, and consequential, and Harry tried his best to focus on everything he was feeling right then, but some traitorous thought flashed through his mind on repeat like a damnable skipping record: _tell her you love her_.

Harry Potter knew several things about himself. He was made of durable stock, his childhood had proven that. He was willing to do anything, including sacrificing himself, to save those he cared about. And, thanks in part to the Dursleys—and if he were being truly honest with himself, Dumbledore—Harry knew that he would do almost anything for approval and love, and would risk very little over the chance of rejection.

So he kept his stupid emotions to himself, hoping instead that maybe she could feel them.

When the backs of Hermione's knees touched the mattress, Harry kept moving until she was flat on her back and he was hovering above her, still kissing her as though he were afraid to stop. Maybe he was. When she lifted her hands, briefly touching his face before bringing them up above her head, he felt his already thick erection swell, pressing hard against the fabric of his pants. Putting a leg between her knees, he pushed his hips down against her thigh and let her feel it.

"You can say no whenever you want," Harry whispered as he broke their kiss.

One of his hands moved to hers, holding her down against the mattress, while the other reached under the hem of her shirt. Harry ran the tips of his fingers against her skin as he moved them up, his pulse quickening when he encountered nothing else keeping her breasts from his touch.

"Find something you like?" she teased, and Harry realised he was probably wearing a stupidly animated expression on his face at the discovery.

He loved her sass but pinched a nipple anyway in reproach. "A few things," he replied as he pinched the other. Her back arched at the sensation, pushing the fullness of her breast up against his palm.

Harry squeezed her hard as he leant down and kissed her slender neck. Soon, however, he wanted more. He wanted her naked and immediately set to give himself what he wanted by sitting up and tugging at the fabric of her shirt—letting it linger for a moment once her breasts were exposed to his gaze—before yanking it up and over her head. He was tempted, just for a moment, to use it as a gag but ultimately decided against it. This time, the first time, he wanted to hear every word and noise she made.

"This seems unfair," she said after a moment, trailing her fingers over his shoulders and stroking down to the end of his shirtsleeves.

"You know I give you whatever you want," Harry muttered, pulling his own shirt up and off, revealing his chest to her—scars and all.

She looked so eager to touch him that it was almost funny when he pinned her hands back down to the bed and buried his face between her breasts, shifting just enough to take a nipple in his mouth and between his teeth.

"Oh!" Her fists clenched above her head as she strained eagerly toward him, toward his teeth grazing against her.

Harry sucked the pebbled flesh eagerly, even as he let one of his hands drift from her arms down her torso, edging his long fingers beneath the waistband of her jeans, flicking the top button open with his thumb—and just a touch of wandless magic. With his whole hand inside her jeans, Harry groaned, releasing her nipple with a wet pop.

"Hermione," he whispered, licking a stripe across her breast and then up to her collarbone. Before speaking again, he pushed his hand further down the front of her jeans. "Where are your knickers?"

She squirmed as if she were searching for the right answer, the answer that would keep his hand right where it was. At last, her eyes still just a bit unfocused, she answered. "I left them at Hogwarts with the books."

_Shame_ , Harry thought briefly as he fought to hide just how much her words had affected him. _I was really looking forward to ripping a few pair_. Instead of saying another word, Harry licked his lips, let her watch him, and slipped a single finger inside of her tight heat.

Her eyes rolling back in her head were a beautiful sight.

* * *

She was going to lose her ever-loving mind, and she was going to do it soon. Probably now.

Harry's finger inside of her was enough to make her clench down hard and her vision grow blurry as she panted.

What was he _doing_ to her? Whatever it was, she certainly wouldn't object. In fact . . .

"More," she begged, tilting her hips toward his hand as she tried to focus back on his face.

"How much more?" Harry asked, his tone a little dark and his breath hot against her skin as he slipped another finger inside of her, working her steadily enough to stoke the burning fire within. At the same time, he ground his erection against her thigh, a subtle reminder of everything on the table tonight.

"Jesus Christ," she said. All of it. She wanted it all. His fingers and his lips and his thick cock all working together to take her to places she'd never been before. Not with Harry, not with _anyone_. Because she knew, instinctively, that being with him was somehow different. She didn't know why—and she certainly didn't have time to examine the reasons now—but she knew it with a certainty that settled deep into her bones.

"Everything," she murmured when she was capable of some level of thought again. "Anything you want, Harry." She trusted him, trusted that he would take care of her exactly as he had been since this affair had begun, trusted him to know what she needed without her having to say a single bloody word.

"I only want you," she thought she heard him whisper as he removed his hand from her jeans and shifted his body above hers, granting him a better angle to peel the jeans from her legs. Cool air caressed her bare legs as he exposed them, swept over her thighs and between them . . . she shivered, straining her wrists against his hand, eager to touch him. She wanted her fingers in his hair again, the silken strands slipping over her skin as she pulled him down for another kiss. She loved when he kissed her.

Perhaps he sensed her desire because, in the next moment, Harry let her pull her hands free. She buried one in his hair before he could say a word, and the other she used to reach down and grasp his cock through his trousers. He pulsed in her hand and when she felt his fingers resume their rhythm inside of her, stretching her deliciously when they reached the deepest point, she did her best to match the pace, rubbing over the cloth between them. She was eager to feel him bare.

Breathing heavy and looking like he was struggling to contain himself, Harry stood up, leaving her briefly alone on the bed as he quickly undid the button and zipper of his trousers, yanking them off with little fanfare. The pants swiftly followed, and she bit her lower lip as he kicked them across the room back toward the door before kneeling between her knees again like he was drawn there by a magnet connecting them.

With her eyes still on him, Harry stroked himself slowly. His fist travelled from the base of his shaft up to the crown, and she saw him shudder as he brushed against himself there.

"Let me?" She wanted to be the one to do that, wanted to be the one whose hand stroked him and teased him until he was jerking against her palm.

Harry nodded, looking slightly dazed by her question. His whole body was tense, but not like when he was angry—nothing like how he had been at the start of the year. This tension, she liked. It meant he wanted her just as badly as she wanted him. It meant he could hardly wait to be touched by her and touch her in return. It was bloody well one of the sexiest things she'd ever seen.

His permission granted, she reached down, wrapping her palm around his shaft, just below where he was gripping himself. When she moved, he moved with her, their hands stroking in tandem for a while before he groaned and released himself, settling his now free fist onto the bed beside her. When he did, the opposite hand—the one still coated in her arousal—moved back to settle possessively between her thighs.

She groaned, spreading her legs for him, tilting her hips as his fingers traced over her.

"I want this—you," Harry said with a look of earnestness on his face that made her want to reach out and kiss him. "Are you sure you're ready?"

Was she ready?

She tightened her grip on his shaft, tugging harder than she would normally have but not so hard she'd risk hurting him. Harry's eyes rolled a little at the movement, and she saw his jaw tighten. She'd been ready for so long she felt like she might die. She felt so repressed it was tying her up into knots and making her frantic with wanting him.

When she got to the head of his cock, she felt a droplet of precome glide against the edge of her palm, and the sensation aroused her even further.

"I think I'm going mad, Harry," she managed to choke out after another moment, as his clever hand continued to stroke her wet heat. "I want you so badly I can barely breathe."

Harry nodded in obvious agreement, his free hand coming up to cup her jaw. "I don't think I can wait another minute, Hermione. I don't think I ever wanted . . . God, anything—anyone—this much in my life."

The confession made her heart swell, made her chest clench around it and her eyes swim with emotion she couldn't fight down. She didn't care if it was wise to feel what she was feeling, didn't care in that moment whether she deserved it or not . . .

"Please," she begged, wrapping one hand around his neck and pulling herself up to kiss first one cheek, then the other, and finally his mouth. "Make love to me, Harry."

Harry pressed his lips hard against hers, taking her breath away even as he withdrew his fingers from inside of her. One arm slipped around her waist, pulling her into his lap where her legs parted and wrapped around him. He reached a hand between their bodies, removing hers from his length. The anticipation was almost too much to bear as the now-familiar drag of his cock against her folds ignited an aching heat inside of her. Harry broke their kiss to look into her eyes, and she could feel the way he let the head of his shaft circle her entrance as though giving her time to change her mind if she wanted.

Eyelids heavy, perched on the edge of beautiful oblivion, Hermione most definitely did _not_ want. She let her eyes close, let herself focus on every single sensation. Her heart beating double time in her chest. Her nipples tightening in expectation. Every single moment of it was glorious. She'd remember it until she was old and grey— she'd relish it until she died.

"Shit!" Harry yelled and practically jumped away from her, startling her from her reverie in the process and accidentally almost sending her off the edge of the bed with him as he stood. "Almost forgot the things!"

He ran to where his trousers had fallen, and she watched in a daze as he bent over and grabbed his wand from the pocket—giving her quite the view in the process.

" _Accio_ condoms!" Harry practically shouted, flicking his wand so eagerly that sparks actually shot out of it.

There was silence, then a clanging from somewhere on the floors below them, and then a whooshing noise reached her ears a split second before Harry said, "Uh oh," and the large box of condoms hit the top of the doorframe, bursting open and sending little foiled packages shooting into the room like bullets.

Harry slowly turned to look at her, the laughter already bubbling up out of his chest. "Well, that's settled," he muttered, gently setting his wand down on the side table and grabbing one of the foiled wraps that had landed on the bed.

For her part, Hermione wasn't sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. Her heart was still racing and she could still feel her pulse down between her thighs. She was unbearably aroused, and he was standing there across the room fumbling with a condom foil. It was both the most infuriating and the most endearing thing he'd ever done.

She watched as Harry tore into the package, pulling the condom out and biting his lower lip in concentration as he rolled it slowly onto his shaft, pausing once to read the back of the wrapper before tossing it over his shoulder.

"We need to learn the charm," he said with a soft chuckle, pressing forward until he was kissing her again—she could still feel his smile against her mouth.

"I'll make it my life's mission," she murmured. "Tomorrow." And then she stopped talking, because his mouth was talented and on her again and any irritation she had felt at the interruption was fading away in wake of the intense need now ricocheting through her.

God, she loved the way he kissed. He was so eager, but every single move he made was done with consideration. He cared, and it was evident in the way he cupped her cheek when he kissed her, the way he reached up and took the elastic from her hair, sweeping her curls up over her head and trailing a finger down the nape of her neck. He liked touching her even in innocent ways, and the knowledge made her heart beat faster.

Fuck, he was going slow again, and she cursed the stupid condom before she reached down and let herself feel it.

It was slick and stretched thin beneath her hand, and Harry jerked his hips when she touched him, groaning into her mouth before breaking away and then panting in her ear.

"No going back?" Harry asked.

She answered by bringing the head of his cock to her entrance once more, her thighs splayed wide and lifting now to wrap round his hips. She made a point of locking her ankles behind him, and then used his arse to leverage herself up, tilting her hips at just the right angle as she put her hands under his arms and wrapped them up over his shoulders.

The sound he made when the head of his cock slipped inside of her, splitting her wide in the process and making her groan, was so gratifying she wanted to bottle it up to listen to over and over again later.

Christ, she felt practically impaled on him already, and this was only the tip! The glorious, thick, throbbing tip of him.

"It's so big." Had she said that out loud?

Harry's shaking chuckle told her she had, and he leant in to give her another kiss. His tongue was almost as hot as the other part of him that was inside of her, and she sucked at it for a moment before he broke away, still trembling.

When he pulled away it was to whisper against her mouth, "Keep taking it."

_Holy God_.

He didn't wait for her to arch against him again or use her legs to pull herself up onto him. When she moaned at his words, he just lowered them both, pressing her hips into the bed and kissing her hard as he started to slide deeper inside of her.

If she'd thought just the tip was big, she'd been completely unprepared for what would come after it.

His shaft was thick and hot as he entered her, feeding inch after inch into her body as his arms trembled with the effort of keeping him up and she cried out into his mouth.

She didn't know what she'd been expecting when she'd asked Harry to fuck her. When she'd stroked him before, had him in her mouth, explored every single throbbing inch . . . she'd never imagined how _full_ it would feel inside of her. Of course, she had fantasized and wondered and guessed . . . but she'd been off of the mark . . . so far off that, as he finally finished sheathing himself inside of her, she wondered how she wasn't already coming, and how often she could talk him into doing this in the future.

"Harry!" She said his name like it was a plea and a prayer. She was certainly begging, she wouldn't deny it. She needed him to move, needed him to plunge deep over and over again, to lose himself against her— _inside_ of her. Because she knew she couldn't stay coherent much longer. Soon, she'd be nothing but a mess of aching, needing, _throbbing_ little pieces, all revelling in him and him alone.

"Oh my god, Hermione." Harry looked down at her, lips parted and breathing heavy, and as his eyes stayed fixed on hers, she felt him very slowly pull back, his cock dragging out of her inch by inch just as slowly as it had settled inside of her. When both of them were shaking, Harry took a breath, snapped his hips, and thrust back inside of her—deep and hard.

She saw bloody stars. Constellations. Whole fields of shining, exploding things that were so brilliant she couldn't name them, could only feel them popping like rock candy in her head.

Then he did it again.

And again.

She could hardly breathe because every time he thrust deep it knocked the air from her lungs, made her gasp. Her whole body pulsed in time with his hips. She was on fire. Every time he pushed deep, she could feel him against her clit. The pressure was delicious, and every single stroke made her more needy, more desperate for him.

"Right there," she heard herself beg, "Don't stop, Harry. Please. So good."

He didn't stop. Not for a single second. If anything, his thrusts sped up as she pled with him, as her words turned into a string of nonsense she could barely understand and her eyes rolled back in her head.

"Fuck, Hermione, if I'd known you felt this good . . ." His words trailed off, but his body seemed to want to keep expressing his thoughts. One of his hands held down one of her wrists to the bed while the other splayed against her bare hip, gripping her tight and using the leverage to angle himself just differently enough that it made her scream.

She was close. So close. He wasn't just putting pressure on her clit now, he was hitting something deep inside of her she'd never felt before, something that throbbed and sent a lightning bolt to the centre of her pleasure. It curled her toes, arched her back, and when it was done it made her nipples so tight she could feel her heartbeat in them. She was going to . . .

"Harry . . . Harry!" She dug her one free hand into his shoulder, her fingers going numb with the effort as her eyes opened wide and she looked at him with a frantic need she could barely name.

"It's okay," Harry said, panting, with sweat dripping down his neck and chest. "I want you to. Give it to me."

At his permission—at his demand—she broke apart.

Her climax was shattering. It flooded through her with such intensity that she barely felt Harry's teeth clamp down hard on her shoulder as he jerked against her. The only thing she felt was the explosion happening inside of her, arching her back until her eyes were practically facing the headboard behind them and she was letting out a single, shaking sob.

This was perfection. This was everything. This was her, and it was Harry, and it was the things they made each other feel, all compressed into a single, magnificent moment.

When the orgasm was finished ravaging her and she could feel herself trembling again, her whole body went lax. Harry was almost instantly on the mattress beside her, pulling her into his arms and kissing her temple.

"Thank you," he whispered against her skin. "That was perfect. _You're_ perfect."

She meant to respond, but she felt like she was floating, and before long, her eyes were drifting shut as she nestled into the warm comfort of his embrace.

_Perfect_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, this month has been super crazy and just keeps getting crazier. Both of us have had Covid 19 hitting very close to home, either in our own extended families or with co-workers and friends. We hope all of our readers are safe and staying healthy. Because of the shelter in place directives from our own states, we're hoping to get more writing done, but because of what's going on in the world, we hope you all will forgive us if our schedule might not allow that. ♥


	13. Chapter 13

Harry, by nature, wasn't a deep sleeper.

Hermione had fallen asleep blissfully in his arms, and he had spent the twenty minutes that followed quietly watching as her chest rose and fell with each breath. Every few minutes she would adjust her body closer to his, nuzzling into his embrace.

Brushing a strand of hair from her face, Harry smiled and kissed her forehead, taking a moment to feel just a little smug about the way her curls had sprung out in various directions thanks to their amorous activities.

Harry counted himself a very lucky man.

Being with Hermione was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. It hadn't been like that with Ginny. Pleasurable, certainly, but there had always been some sort of disconnect between them that, oddly, had little to do with his baser and more controlling desires. With Ginny, it had felt like they were always at war—even after Voldemort had fallen. This, here with Hermione, it felt like Harry was finally at peace. And wasn't that something? Something to treasure. Something to cherish. Certainly something to hold onto.

Gently touching the necklace she still wore, Harry adjusted it so that the clasp was at the nape of her neck and the key charm situated itself between her breasts.

She made a little noise of contentment and shifted in her sleep until her head rested in the centre of his chest.

"Hermione, are you asleep?" Harry whispered.

Soft breathing sounds replied.

He thought about confessing it right then and there. She was asleep. She wouldn't know, so what could it hurt, really? Opening his mouth, he began to form the words but clicked his teeth shut and thought them instead: _I think I'm in love with you_.

Feeling cowardly in the worst way, Harry focused instead on the delicious memory of being inside her. Merlin . . . if Fiendfyre could somehow be comfortably warm . . . that was the only comparison he could think of. Her body had encompassed him completely, burning him with desire but comforting him as well. Instead of feeling lost in his own darkness, he was lit up from within because of the brightness she exuded. The merging of their bodies had woken something in him he had fought to keep buried, and looking at her peacefully sleeping now had worry sinking into his bones.

She looked so sated, so satiated, so satisfied.

The sheets rode up around her body in the most deliciously tempting ways. He stroked his fingers down her bare back, letting himself explore her skin with earnest devotion. Running his palm over her arse had him quietly groaning at the thought of smacking her there a little. Or maybe a lot, depending on her reaction.

His body reacting to his thoughts, Harry grinned and slightly shifted her in his arms. She rolled over like a rag doll and made a discontented little growl. He couldn't help but softly chuckle, resigned to let her sleep.

Pushing at some of the hair that had fallen into her face, Harry frowned and swallowed hard.

He'd _bitten_ her.

It wasn't as though he were a creature or anything, and he had _certainly_ left love bites behind before, but the impression of his teeth was still visible on her skin. Looking closer, he realised that it would definitely bruise.

God, why had he done that?

Why did he want to do it again?

Gently moving Hermione from his arms, he tucked the sheets up around her body and grabbed his wand from the nightstand so that he could cast a quick Warming Charm on the bed. Slipping his pants on, Harry quietly left the room and closed the bedroom door behind him.

"Fuck," he whispered to himself. "Fuck, what have I gotten myself into?"

Retreating automatically down the stairs, Harry blinked and realised he had gone into Sirius's room. It made sense. During the time they'd been hiding at Grimmauld Place on the Horcrux hunt, Harry had found solace amongst his godfather's belongings. The same had happened when he'd returned home following the end of the war.

The Weasleys had helped him clean the place up a bit, but every now and then he would take a day or night to himself and end up secluded in the bedroom surrounded by Muggle records, photographs, and even a few diaries that Sirius had kept when he'd been at Hogwarts. At first, reading them had felt like an invasion of privacy, but with no one left alive to tell him anything about what little family he'd ever had, Harry took great comfort in reading the journals. Over the summer, he had read all the way up through Sirius's sixth year.

Needing comfort—and maybe a bit of guidance now—Harry shifted the wardrobe a bit, pushing aside a leather jacket and several faded concert shirts to reveal the small shelf behind where the diaries had been found. Grabbing one he knew he hadn't yet touched, Harry turned back and threw himself on the bed, cracking the journal open and smiling at the first entry which talked, in great detail, about the first Quidditch match of Sirius's seventh year.

_Prongs is a menace on a broom, truly. Spent the whole of the game showing off for Evans. She glared at him the whole time, of course. Now, though, instead of her glares being filled with obvious disgust and pure loathing, she followed up every dirty look with threats to his person if he dared to get himself injured. They're so stupidly in love that it's quite irritating if I do say so myself._

Harry grinned, already feeling his eyes well up a bit as he tried to picture the image in his head.

He skipped over a few pages that had been scratched up. He'd learnt early on in reading the diaries that Sirius had gone back and violently tried to rip any mention of Pettigrew from the pages.

_Went to the showers late after the game. Fought with Regulus on the pitch and I just wasn't in the mood to celebrate with the rest of the team. Prongs looked like he was getting set up to have a grand time. Me, though, I was eager for a hot shower. Maybe a cold one to cool my bloody temper a bit._

_I hadn't been under the water for more than a minute before someone took a fist full of my hair and shoved my face against the wall, pinning me there with blunt force that nearly knocked the wind out of me._

Harry's eyes widened. Sirius had been attacked in the showers?

_People look at Moony and think he's all skinny and weak, but the bloke has an unnatural strength to him that really sneaks up on you. Fuck, I can still feel the aches hours later._

"Remus?" Harry muttered in shock. " _Remus_ and Sirius fought?"

_I should have known better, truly. Being this close to the full and all. He's been an uptight shit since coming back to school, and I took the piss by openly flirting with Macdonald right in front of him. She's a pretty thing. Not my type, of course, but I don't think he really cared. It was the point of the matter, really. He was being sullen, and I was just too fucking hungry and tired of waiting._

_Waiting sometimes makes it better, though._

_Makes him a little more intense._

_Rough. Hard._

_There's sincerely nothing in the world like being fucked rough by a werewolf three days before a full moon._

"What. The. Fuck?" Harry's mouth fell open and he nearly dropped the book.

Remus and Sirius had been lovers?! Thinking back . . . they _had_ been awfully close. And Harry didn't exactly know any details seeing as he'd been at Hogwarts during that time, but Remus and Tonks hadn't exactly gotten together until well after Sirius had died.

This was a lot to unpack.

He'd never think poorly of them, of course—no two people Harry knew could have needed love more than Remus and Sirius had, and if they'd at some point found it in one another, then he thought _well done, them_.

Then something caught his eye.

Bruises.

_If I go to Madam Pomfrey again asking help in covering bruises, she's likely to tell McGonagall. What am I to do then? Sorry Professor, but it's not what you think. I swear it's just what happens when my boyfriend gets a little too excited. Merlin, if my mother only knew that I'm spending my nights in Gryffindor Tower being tied to my bedpost while a male, half-blood, werewolf orders me around on the best way to suck his cock._

_No one gets it. No one gets us._

_Well, that's not true. We did find that little bondage club in Knockturn over summer hols. A little much on the leather, and that's coming from me, for Merlin's sake, but the locals were nice enough. Bunch of masochists. My kind of people._

_Moony, though, well he's always in his head about the whole thing. Shudders in horror when he sees the marks he leaves behind. I tried to tell him that some people just are the way they are, but of course he thinks it's all about the werewolf shit._

Harry swallowed down the rising bile in his throat. What if there was something truly wrong with him? Had there been something wrong with Remus? Was it the werewolf thing that made him want to do those things? He thought of the bite mark he'd left on Hermione, and his stomach roiled in response.

_I tried talking to Prongs about it. He says that sometimes couples are just that way, and that even Evans has had him bend over so she could spank his arse once or tw—_

"Ah!" Harry launched the diary across the room.

* * *

She woke up annoyed.

What in the hell had Harry been thinking, keeping _this_ from her for so bloody long?

She'd kill him if she didn't care for him so damned much.

Curling her toes, Hermione yawned. Her back arched and her fingers scraped against the headboard as she reached up automatically. The muscles in her legs and low in her belly protested as she unfurled herself, and she felt a few delicious twinges deep within alongside a dull throbbing high on her shoulder. Of course, it all faded away once she relaxed, rolling onto her side and wincing only briefly as her pillow brushed against what she remembered now was a bite mark near the nape of her neck.

She couldn't help the wide grin that split her face at the memory of that mark being made. She'd come so hard she'd been unable to think properly, and the feel of Harry's teeth on her had only sent her diving deeper over the edge. And speaking of Harry . . .

She reached out beside her, the palm of her hand hitting cool sheets as she frowned. Where was he? If he thought she was going to let him get away this morning without an encore he was about to be sadly mistaken.

Sitting up abruptly, she felt her curls settle around her shoulders and brush over her bare skin as the sheets slipped down to her lap. She scanned the room after that, and her gaze very nearly skated over him in the process before snapping back to settle on him.

He was sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room. She wasn't sure whether it had been there the night before, or whether he'd conjured it to give himself space without abandoning the room entirely, but what she was sure about was that he looked like hell.

"Did you sleep?" she asked, though she thought she might know the answer. There were shadows under his eyes and the hand he'd been leaning his cheek against was now rubbing at his temple.

Leaning forward, Harry cleared his throat.

His voice sounded thick with sleeplessness when he said, "Book for you," before tossing a small black volume onto the bed. "Marked the page. Feel free to . . . But don't tell me . . ." He groaned and scrubbed his hands down his face. "You'll _know_ what you shouldn't tell me."

Curious, she opened the slim volume. It took her only a few seconds to realise she was looking at a diary . . . and another few seconds to understand just _whose_ diary.

Her eyes widened, and she looked back up at him.

"Sirius? Where did you—? I mean— you've been up all night reading a diary?"

He ran his hands through his hair. "Better than writing in one, I s'pose," he said, following his words with a yawn. "I was up most of the night worried about—" He tapped his index finger on his forehead, dead centre on the lightning bolt scar. "I've been reading Sirius's diaries whenever I'm here to kind of help get me out of my own head. Unfortunately," he gestured rapidly at the book. "Now I've got _other_ concerns."

Furrowing her brow at his response, Hermione looked back down at the book. She'd left it open on her lap and let herself scan it like a textbook, looking for keywords as she went, reading first and last paragraphs for some hint of what exactly had captivated Harry and made him worry.

Until she saw the words 'magnificent' and 'cock' side-by-side.

"Oh my God," she said. "Are you reading his sexcapades?"

"These!" Harry pointed at the book. "Are not! I'm just . . ." He stood up and began pacing around the room in utter silence until he stopped, turned to look at her, and blurted out, "Do you think I could be a werewolf?"

"A werewolf. Harry, have you gone mad?"

Harry opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to reply, but as she stood— concerned and heading toward him— he seemed to lose his train of thought. It was only then that she realised she was standing completely nude in the middle of the room, the sheets still pooled on the bed and her only covering the conglomeration of curls that seemed intent on strangling her that morning. Under normal circumstances, she might have been embarrassed, but after last night? Somehow, what had passed between them had left her completely at ease . . . completely confident in her own skin.

And Harry's gaze fastened on her nakedness didn't do anything to make her question that confidence.

She smiled, relishing the feel of the expression spreading slowly across her lips.

"Like what you see, Potter?"

"Mmm." He blinked rapidly, likely due to his lack of sleep. "Wait, no, don't . . ." He shook his head and closed his eyes. "Maybe it's the Horcrux. Maybe it's not all out. Like a wine stain on carpet."

She finished making her way toward him, confused by his words.

"Slow down," she said, settling onto the floor beside him, her knees on the worn carpet as she settled her hands on the tops of his thighs. "What does Sirius's diary have to do with werewolves or Horcruxes?"

What was he on about? She could tell that he was agitated, that _something_ was worrying him . . . but she couldn't understand _what_. The passage he'd marked in the diary had been about sex . . . could this be about what _they_ had done? Was he regretting it?

"Remus," Harry said plainly as if that were an answer to her question.

"Remus," she repeated the name, hoping it would make more sense the second time. It didn't. Unless . . .

"Wait. Was that _Remus's_ magnificent cock Sirius was writing about?"

"Yep." Harry nodded his head rapidly. "And I'll thank you not to ever say it like _that_ again."

"And you're worried you're . . ." She lost his train of thought at that point. "Like Remus?"

Harry stood, stepping past her and retrieving the book from the bed before flipping it open to another page.

He cleared his throat. " _Moony was out of sorts all day after not doing well on Slughorn's exam. I let him take it all out on me. I'm surprised I have any hair left as hard as he was pulling it, and the fucker didn't even give me permission to—_ " He snapped the book shut and plopped down to sit on the bed, the mattress creaking beneath him as it settled. "They did stuff like . . . y'know . . . us. Because Remus _needed_ it. Because of the werewolf."

Oh.

_Oh!_

The rest clicked like a lightbulb in her head. Sirius and Remus had enjoyed a bit of roughness as well. And he'd _written_ about it. She knew by the concerned look on Harry's face that the idea distressed him, but the only thing she felt as she knelt there by the armchair, looking up at him with her thighs still twinging a bit, was relief.

"Let me see that," she said, holding her hand out toward Harry, eager to look at the diary herself. When he tossed it toward her, she caught it out of the air and she stood before sitting in the chair he'd vacated, facing him where he was perched on the edge of the mattress.

She flipped through the pages again, letting her gaze linger this time when words like 'suck' and 'ream' and 'fuck' came up.

"If you really think it has nothing to do with dark magic," Harry said, looking exhausted and a touch helpless, "there's something in there about a club they went to in London. Other people like them. Like . . . me, I guess. I dunno what to make of it."

She barely heard his words as he spoke. In the diary, Sirius was giving a very detailed account of something that had happened in one of the secret passageways out of Hogwarts.

Hermione felt herself blush, the heat rising in her cheeks and on her chest.

Merlin, this was indecent. Not what the men had done . . . but her reaction to it, certainly.

She shut the book and cleared her throat.

"Well, Sirius seems to have enjoyed himself as much as I do," she said, and then she dared a glance up at Harry. He was staring at her in utter shock, and she bit her lip before she continued. "Look, if dark magic had something to do with this," she waved the book in his direction, "It wouldn't account for Sirius's enjoyment of the . . . um . . . activities. Or mine."

Harry let out a heavy sigh and rested his elbows on his knees. "I bit you last night."

Hermione forced herself to look him in the eye, to lean forward in her seat and match his posture. Her shoulder twinged with the movement and the sensation went straight between her thighs.

"I liked it." She tossed the book back in his direction and it landed on the sheets beside his leg. "Sirius seemed to like it too. And apparently, there's a whole club of people who enjoy the same thing."

He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. "I thought it was just me," he whispered. "And I was worried. And then I wasn't because you were so . . . But then I saw the diary and . . ." He trailed off. "I should have stayed in bed and slept. I'm sorry I left."

The distance between them was like a physical pain, and Hermione rushed out of her seat and toward him, settling onto the mattress at his side and taking his hand in hers.

"You don't have to apologise to me," she said. "Besides, this is good. It's good news! And I'm sure if there's someplace where people go to participate in this sort of thing, I'll be able to find more books about it. We'll know more by this evening." She leant into him, bumping his shoulder with hers briefly. "Promise."

Harry looked at her, a smile finally crossing his face. He reached out and gently touched her jaw. "Leave it to me to find something you haven't read about already."

"That's what I like about you," she said, leaning into his touch and releasing his hand so that she could trail hers from the inside of his knee up toward his thigh. He was wearing pants, but she was certain she could stroke him just as well through them as she could without. He'd given her plenty of practice over the last few months, after all. "Always supporting my book habit."

Harry licked his lips as her fingers edged higher up his thigh until he placed his palm down on her hand to stop her from going further. "I might need a few hours to forget some of this," he said with a sad little sigh. "Hermione?"

She groaned but forced herself to answer.

"Yes?"

His head hung down and he mumbled out, "Sirius said that my mum used to spank my dad during sex."

She couldn't stop the laughter that bubbled up from her chest, spilling out her mouth. She buried her face against his shoulder, trying to muffle it at the very least.

"It's not funny," Harry said, pressing his face into her hair as he caught her laughter like it was contagious. "I'm traumatised here, you realise."

She laughed harder, and a single thought occurred to her, one she couldn't even come close to suppressing in the state she was in.

"Guess the eyes weren't the only thing you got from your mum."

She snorted as Harry gasped loudly, and then laughed harder still, her belly aching and her eyes watering as he tackled her back against the bed and she shrieked.

* * *

They didn't find the sex club Sirius had written about that afternoon, but they did find a surprisingly clean little shop off of Knockturn Alley that neither of them had ever seen before but which the proprietress claimed had been there for decades. Hermione suspected there must be age restrictive charms on the place, and given its contents, she wasn't surprised.

"Is there anything I can help you find, love?"

The witch who worked the desk and had introduced herself as the owner was approaching them, and Hermione bit her lip before forcing a smile. Beside her, Harry jolted and dropped a book on sexual positions he had been browsing. They were both wearing glamours for privacy reasons, but it was still difficult not to be embarrassed.

"Yes, actually," Hermione said, straightening her spine as the older woman reached them. "I'm not sure where to find what we're looking for." She waved at the bookshelves lining the back wall, all brimming with volumes.

"Oh, to be sure," said the woman, giving Harry an amused little smile as he awkwardly picked the book up from the floor and then slid around to the next aisle over. "We've the best collection in Britain, ya' ken." The owner beamed, looking particularly proud of the fact. "What is it you're wanting?"

Hermione glanced at Harry, who coughed into his hand and picked up the first thing in his line of sight. Hermione couldn't see what it was from where she was standing, but Harry's eyes widened comically, and he very slowly lowered the item back to the shelf and made his way back to Hermione's side, his hands now firmly shoved into his pockets.

"I'm not sure how to explain it," Hermione answered at last. "You see, we came across a diary that described some . . . well, some acts we're familiar with . . . but the terminology escapes me."

"Hmm." The woman eyed them, but not suspiciously. It was almost as if she were trying to size them up.

Harry shifted uncomfortably beside her, but Hermione kept her own gaze on the woman. She wasn't ashamed of what they did together, even if discussing it with a total stranger _was_ uncomfortable, and she had never been one to shy away from research. This was just . . . a conversation with Madam Pince. Yes, she'd gone to the librarian with questions more times than she could count. This was no different.

"Is it wand play you're interested in?"

"You mean like spells or . . .? Oh. Oh, never mind," Harry muttered beside her, looking up at the ceiling and shifting uncomfortably.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, lad," said the woman. "Using other devices to bring your woman to pleasure when your own device doesn't quite do the job is an age-old tradition that—"

"It's _not_ that," said Hermione firmly, before the woman could continue.

"My device is just fine, thanks," said Harry, sounding offended now.

"It's actually . . . well, it's more behavioural." Hermione tried to think of a polite way to describe what they did together.

"Thestral play? I've known many a lass who—"

"Jesus—I can't." Harry's cheeks had gone bright red, and he met her gaze. "I'm gonna just . . ." He looked at the other woman and then back to Hermione. "Go find a cliff." And then he hurried off toward the opposite side of the room as the shop owner chuckled heartily.

"Not _that_ then?" she guessed.

"No. Definitely not," said Hermione.

"You'll have to give me more details then, lass. I'm no legilimens."

Her face hot with embarrassment, Hermione plucked up her Gryffindor courage and did as she was asked, lowering her voice so that Harry couldn't hear her from where he stood beside a rack of handcuffs.

"I— _We_ — well, we get rough."

"Rough? What sort of rough?"

"Is details . . . I mean, are they really necessary?"

The woman snorted. "Aye. There's lots of different types of 'rough'. I've four bookcases full of it."

Hermione wondered how long it would take her to get through four bookshelves worth of research, decided she wanted to spend most of her hols fucking Harry rather than reading about other people fucking, and swallowed her pride.

"He bites me," she said. "And tells me what to do. Pins me to walls and . . . Likes to be in control."

The woman's brows furrowed for a moment. "And you like it?" she asked, but she didn't sound appalled or concerned so much as she sounded dutiful.

Hermione just nodded, her cheeks feeling as if they were on fire now.

"Good," said the woman, sounding much more enthusiastic now. "In that case, you'll be looking for the BDSM books. They're this way, lamb."

_BDSM_? Was that an acronym for something?

A short walk and several shelves of books later, Hermione realised it was indeed an acronym, and that the things she and Harry did with one another— the things she fantasised about— they were indeed a _thing_.

She found a part of herself relieved. She had never seriously considered that there was anything really wrong with Harry or with herself . . . but there had been times when she had wondered whether the war had changed them, whether it had made them abnormal in some way. Perhaps, if she had not found herself in such chaos, or if Harry hadn't spent his formative years being alternately abused, revered, and reviled (when he wasn't being hunted by a murderer)— Perhaps then they might have both been aroused by sweet, soft things.

Seeing the multitude of books in front of her now though made her heart swell.

What she and Harry enjoyed together had a _name_. It had _books_ written about it. _Studies_ carried out by witches and wizards who might have been scientists had they been Muggle. It had _research_ and a body of wizarding work prolific enough that she could spend months straight working her way through it. Nothing that had all of that could truly be called abnormal. Nothing she could research was truly terrifying.

"Oh look, you found books," Harry said, looking like he was forcing himself to remain as calm and natural as possible. He didn't even look at the titles of the books. "Well, is that that? I put a few things on the counter and we can just have it all rung up and then be on our way."

Hermione hummed but didn't answer. She was still browsing the book at the top of her stack. There was a section on piercings and— "Oh god." There were pictures.

Harry glanced down at her words and seemed to catch an eyeful of something on the page, because next thing she knew he took the book right out of her hands and flipped to the next page.

"Huh," he muttered, clearly intrigued. "You think they can do this one?"

He held the book back out to her revealing an artistic photograph of a woman with bare breasts, two pierced nipples, and a thin chain running between the piercings. Looking more amused than serious, Harry rocked back and forth on the heels of his trainers as Hermione bit her lower lip again.

"It looks like the chain's removable," she said, leaning in to inspect the apparatus in the photograph—an act made more difficult by the fact that the model wearing it was twirling around to offer a full view in the wizarding photograph. "I don't see why not."

She imagined what the piercings— the chain— would look like on her. She wasn't quite as well endowed as the model, but she thought they'd look nice. Thought Harry would think they looked fucking fantastic.

Glancing up to look at the shop owner several aisles away, Harry cleared his throat and closed the book. "So you found some things? About whatever this is?" he asked, sounding nervous.

"Loads," answered Hermione promptly. "This . . . _thing_ has way more written about it than Horcruxes ever did. Research should be a breeze."

"Thank Merlin for that," Harry said with a heavy exhale. "About the amount of stuff written compared to Horcruxes, not the research part. I'm on board for that."

Hermione smiled at him. "I hope so," she said, aware that she was teasing him now but willing to risk it. "This research seems rather hands-on."

Grinning, Harry leant in close and whispered, "Well we've got the rest of our—umm . . ." He cleared his throat. "All of Christmas hols and then some to figure it out."

The thought thrilled her.

"I'm ready if you are," she said after another moment, using her wand to levitate the stack of books she'd collected and sending them speeding toward the desk near the front. They settled on the surface with a loud thunk. "Unless there was more you wanted to look for?"

She let her eyes skate over the rows of shelving with lots of leather and chains and phallic type devices that had made her blush mightily when they'd first entered the shop.

Harry shook his head. "We can always come back."

Not sure whether she was relieved or disappointed, she nodded.

They walked to the desk, and the shop owner met them there, smiling at the stack of books with what looked like approval.

Harry nudged a small pile of items next to the books. "These too, please."

There was a pretty, blue silk robe that he'd clearly picked out for her, and when the witch lifted the item off to bag it, she revealed a little wooden paddle, a small bundle of linen rope, and something called a wrist-to-thigh restraint.

"I see you kept busy while I browsed," Hermione murmured as the other witch wrapped two of the more fragile books in paper.

Harry leant in close, and Hermione felt a hot thrill shoot downward as she felt his breath on her cheek. "Not as busy as _we're_ going to be later."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We want to thank you all again for your amazing support. We know this pandemic has not been easy for anyone, and we definitely are included in the group that are handling it as best as possible (meaning: generally not well). We are going to still TRY for weekly updates, but shoot for bi-weekly at the VERY latest (in the hopes that we can ease our anxiety over weekly deadlines and trick our brains into writing with ease and faster). But again, a SINCERE thank you to all of you amazing readers and commenters! You have no idea how much your comments are making this world a better place for us.


	14. Chapter 14

Harry was glad that their glamours were lasting as they entered the shady-looking parlour toward the end of Knockturn nearing Carkit Market. While he wouldn't have been thrilled with anyone spotting them down Knockturn, the press rarely ventured there even if they _had_ been spotted. This close to the open public, however, was a bit more daunting. As much as he would have preferred going somewhere Muggle for this, he did agree with Hermione that the quick healing of a magical professional would be better.

The tattoo and piercing shop was well-lit from the inside and looked oddly sterile considering the outside was a bit shabby. If it weren't for all the moving art on the wall and the colour of spells being cast, he might have even figured it to be a Muggle business. Everyone working there wore Muggle clothing except for one girl behind the front desk who wore a faded grey Weird Sisters vest over a black bra. Her black hair was pulled up at the top of her head with various spiked locks sticking out in a variety of directions. She had a moving tattoo of a niffler on her right shoulder that crawled up her neck in what looked like an attempt to swipe at and steal a plethora of gems pierced into her ears.

"Do you take walk-ins?" Harry asked, setting down the bag of earlier purchases down as he approached. Beside him, Hermione shifted close, putting her hand into his and lacing their fingers together.

The girl looked up, smirked at him and popped her gum. "Nice glamour," she said. "We get a lot of those in here. If you're looking for ink though, the spells can sometimes cross about and negate your magical masking."

"What about piercings?" he asked, squeezing Hermione's hand a little, wondering if she was still even wanting this.

"Nope." The girl shook her head, popping her gum again as she spoke. "No spells needed there except for speedy healing." She turned and looked over a small partition and asked, "Hey Nige? You got time for a walk-in?"

A tall, fairly good-looking wizard with short, brown hair stood up and leant over to examine Harry and Hermione. "Bloke or bird? Not that I have a preference," he said with a wink and an open-mouthed grin that showed a shiny tongue piercing.

Harry cleared his throat a little as he glanced over a photograph on the wall, a tattoo of a distracting phoenix fluttering on the shoulder of a well-built man. "Hmm," he said to himself, making a mental note to come back at a later time and browse a little. Turning back to the piercer, Harry held up his and Hermione's entwined hands.

"My girlfriend," he said boldly.

The wizard chuckled a little and waved them over. "I assume she's my client and you're not just making a big stake of claim there?" He patted on a large, padded table with one hand and then gestured to a nearby stool with the other. "I'm Nigel. Have a seat. You can set your purse just there on the floor. It's clean."

Hermione did as she was asked and then grinned over her shoulder at Harry. Her glamour was good, but even so, he recognised the smile. "Where should I set my shirt?" she asked, sounding surprisingly matter-of-fact as she looked back toward Nigel.

The man's brows raised a little in obvious amusement, and he cast a glance to Harry who rolled his eyes a little before taking the blouse.

"So what are you looking for?" Nigel asked. "I'd make assumptions, but we like to be very upfront 'round here."

Hermione glanced back at Harry again, biting her lower lip and arching her delicate eyebrow at him in what looked like both a question and a challenge.

Harry smiled at her sweetly. "She wants a nipple piercing. Is that right, love?"

She beamed at his response.

"Yes." She looked back at Nigel. "Two of them, actually."

Eyes widening slightly, Harry's smile grew at the declaration. "Apparently, she wants two of them."

Nigel chuckled and nodded as he cast what looked like Cleansing Charms on his hands before slipping gloves over them. "Not one for each of you?"

Harry snorted in amusement. "Not today."

"How about something more . . . _substantial_ for the gentleman?" Nigel asked Harry, waggling his eyebrows a bit and fiddling with his tongue piercing with his teeth.

Hermione's interest looked piqued, and she glanced back to Harry as if she wanted to see his reaction.

Blinking at her, Harry cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck, resisting the urge to protectively adjust himself through his jeans. "And, er, what's the healing for something like . . . _that_?"

Nigel laughed. "Not as easy as your girl, mate."

Harry shrugged as if that settled the matter and threw his hands up. "Oh, damn shame," he said, sounding the least disappointed a person could ever be. "Guess I'll just have to come back at a more convenient time."

Laughing, Hermione turned back to Nigel again. "Speaking of healing, I've heard good things about your spellwork here. A friend of mine had her navel pierced and said the charms afterward were almost instantaneous. Is the healing for my . . . ummm . . . nipples—Is that similar?"

"Really?" Harry asked, having never thought to look at the navels of other girls around Hogwarts.

Nigel ignored Harry entirely, now a complete professional as he addressed Hermione. "Quite right. Spell's even the same. Takes no more than a few seconds." He paused and looked over to Harry. "I'd take my time with _you_ , though."

Letting a puff of air out through his nose, Harry crossed his arms over his chest, wondering if the man was actually related to Romilda Vane due to his obvious flirations. "Right, well, I'll keep that in mind."

"What do you think you'd like?" Nigel asked Hermione as he began waving his wand in front of a large wooden case that began to shift around, opening dozens of little velvet boxes to reveal a variety of rings, little silver bars, and pretty gemstones. Hermione peered down at them, and as her eyes widened, she glanced back up at Harry.

"There's so many," she said, and then looked back down, her gaze settling on the rings and flicking back and forth eagerly. She looked like she was reading a particularly good book. Before long, she reached out and pointed at a shining set of golden rings, simple and smooth and gleaming.

"Classic," Nigel said with obvious approval. "You want your man to stay in here?"

Hermione nodded vigorously and tore her eyes away from the rings to look back up at Harry. When her eyes met his, he felt that strange dark hunger in his chest roar to life until something occurred to him.

"Is she going to bleed or can you stop that?"

Nigel shook his head. "Clean as Hogwarts candelabras after detention, mate."

"I'd like to stay," Harry said, feeling a rush of relief hit him. He hadn't seen Hermione injured since they'd gone running, and he had reacted poorly to the sight of her blood then. He did not want this to turn into a bad memory for her, especially since he still wondered if she was just doing this for him. "If you still want to get them, that is. Completely your choice."

Hermione's smile only grew wider as she nodded again. "I do. Been thinking about them for ages now." And then she gave him one of _those_ looks, the kind that told him she was thinking filthy things and shot straight to his cock.

Nigel flicked his wand, closing off the partition completely, making it inaccessible to everyone outside, even though Harry could still see shadows moving on the other side of it.

"Whenever you're ready, go ahead and undress, if you would?" Nigel politely asked as he turned and busied himself by picking up the rings she had chosen and cleansing them with magic as well.

As he did so, Hermione slipped her top up over her head. Harry could see her breathing quicken as she did so, could see a shiver run down her spine as she reached back with both hands and undid her bra before sliding down her arms and setting it on the shirt in her lap. She looked down, her cheeks growing rosy as she folded the shirt before looking up at him again.

"Hold these for me, will you?"

Harry leant forward and took the clothes in his hands, settling the small pile on his lap as he shifted in his seat to adjust himself. He had temporarily wondered if them finally having sex would ease the constant craving he had for her, but all it had done was awaken his body to every bit of potential there was yet to explore.

He was thrilled for himself that she hadn't bothered to glamour her breasts, or worse, use Polyjuice for this outing. However, she had gone out of her way to put a decent amount of magic into covering up her scars from the war. As glad as he thought he would feel to see them gone, he actually felt discomforted by the lack of their presence. He wondered if she felt the same about his currently blemish-free forehead.

"Now lie back and get comfortable," Nigel said as he pulled a pillow out from the nearby cabinet, setting it behind Hermione on the table. "So we know we want magic healing, but do you want Muggle or magic piercing?" He held up his wand in one hand, and a long thick, hollow needle with the other. "Muggle hurts more, but some people like that."

"Magic," Hermione answered promptly and glanced at Harry as if she were sorry she hadn't asked for his preference. Still, she didn't look at all apologetic, and as she looked back to Nigel, she repeated herself. "Definitely magic."

"Not a problem." Nigel put down the needle and adjusted his gloves. "Little cleansing charm for the skin and then a healing spell now to get things started," he said, waving his wand gently over her skin.

Harry watched carefully, doing his best to look curious and inquisitive. He wasn't jealous, of course. The man seemed like a professional—when he wasn't openly flirting with either of them— but Harry wanted to maintain an expression that showed he wasn't going to start throwing a fit in the middle of the parlour because someone else was touching Hermione.

"Feel all right?" Nigel asked her.

"Mhm," Hermione hummed. "Tingles." Her nipples pebbled and her hands clenched onto the seat on either side of her thighs.

"If you think _that's_ good," Nigel said with a little smirk, "you ought to mention to your man later that you can cast spells on the rings."

" _He_ can hear you," Harry said, feeling like Nigel was purposely trying to get a rise out of him now. However, Hermione looked amused, and far be it from him to deny her anything that made her happy.

Nigel took a long instrument that looked like tongs with little holes cut out at the end. "This is how I'll hold the skin tight so no chance of any mishaps. My brother once tried to pierce his own nipple by holding onto it, and cut a hole clean through his finger," he said with a laugh as he held his hand out over her right breast, looking to her once for confirmation. "You ready?"

Hermione, whose chin was trembling slightly, gave a single nod. "Yes."

Harry watched carefully, concern suddenly pitting in his stomach. He stood up from his chair and angled so he could get a better look as Nigel used the tool to clamp down on Hermione's nipple with one hand, and set the tip of his wand right up against her skin with the other.

"Little pinch," Nigel said and then whispered something softly under his breath before a small stream of purple light left his wand, sending a piercing charm right through Hermione's skin.

Panicked at the light from the spell and the small gasp from Hermione, Harry immediately looked for blood, but Nigel had been correct. There was none. "You all right?"

Her brow was furrowed but she nodded. "Yeah. Just a little—" Nigel seemed to ignore them both as he worked, releasing her nipple from the clamp and quickly inserting the ring which glowed steadily with soft magic for several beats after he'd secured it.

"Oh," said Hermione, sounding relieved. "That's better."

"Can't imagine how the Muggles handle it," Nigel said. "I hear they get infections and such if it ain't washed right."

Hermione's nose wrinkled and she peered down at her bare breast, seeming to admire the shining golden ring. "It's quite pretty," she said, and Harry knew the words were meant for him now because she looked up at him so sweetly.

Distracted by the scene in front of him, Harry had to remind himself that they were not alone just to keep himself from licking his lips. Thankfully, Nigel had already moved onto the second breast, securing the nipple with the clamp.

"Good for the matching set?" he asked cheekily.

"Go on then."

The spell shot off faster this time, and the ring was in before Harry could even get a good look. He didn't even realise he was still standing with Hermione's bra and shirt clenched tightly in his hands. He took in a very slow breath as he let his gaze settle on her. He only wished that she looked like herself in that moment. But then, he might've not been able to control himself if she did.

"You're all set, love," Nigel said, snapping the gloves off of his hands. "Healing should be good to go, but I wouldn't be messing about with them for at least a few hours." He cast a look at Harry and smiled innocently. "Y'hear?"

"Cheers," Harry said.

Nigel twirled his wand a little and then tucked it behind his ear. "Take a few to relax if you need and just pay up front. And you," he said, looking at Harry. "Come back whenever you've got a more open schedule."

Harry cleared his throat and stepped back as Nigel slipped out of the small, enclosed area, shutting the partition door behind him.

"You feel okay?" he asked as he stepped up to Hermione's side, gently running the knuckle of his index finger down the side of her breast, being careful not to get too close to the centre.

"Can barely feel them," she answered after a moment, her gaze riveted on his hand now as it stroked her. And then she looked up again, meeting his gaze with an uncertainty that was rare in her. "They do look good, don't they? I mean, it's not too jarring for you?"

Licking his lips, Harry nodded. "They always look good to me, but I can't deny that you're looking more tempting than a Snitch right about now."

The bare skin of her chest flushed and Hermione shifted on her seat, turning to face him and pulling him toward her with a hand on his wrist. He let himself be guided until he was standing between her spread thighs and then settled his hands on her hips—her clothes still in one fist.

"Shame we can't play with them for another hour or so," he muttered. "But we should get out of here quickly." He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, glancing over the colour of it which was darker than it had been when they first came in. "Glamours are fading."

Hermione pouted but nodded all the same.

"You'll need to let me put my shirt back on then," she teased and took it deftly from his hands, pulling it up and over her head and down again in a single smooth motion, shivering as it brushed down over her nipples.

"Worst moment of my life," Harry said with a melodramatic sigh until he looked down at his hand and realised he was still holding her bra. With a sudden little smile on his face, he tucked the folded bit of fabric into the pocket of his coat, before bending down to pick up Hermione's purse and hand it back to her. "Never mind my complaining. Best day ever."

There was a light knock on the partition before the girl from the front desk asked, "Decent?"

Hermione blinked. "Yes."

The witch stepped through, popping her gum with a little smirk. "Forget something?"

Harry felt a lump of dread sink right into his stomach when he realised the girl was holding the bag he had, apparently, left behind in the front of the shop. The bag which contained their recent purchased from the sex shop.

He didn't even dare look in Hermione's direction as he held his hand out, waiting for the girl to set the handle of it over his extended fingers before muttering a humiliated, "Thanks."

"No worries," she said, leaning against the wall. "Nige treat you all right?"

Hermione cleared her throat and let out a bit of a muffled, "Yes, thank you."

"Ain't nothin' to be shamed of," the girl said to Harry with sudden and obvious sympathy as she gestured to the bag. "You checked out Limitation?"

"Pardon?" Hermione asked. Harry chanced a glance at her and offered an apologetic glance as he tightened his grip on the shopping bag.

"Limitation," the girl repeated. "Fetish club over in Shoreditch near the Red Crown. You know the pub?"

Harry blinked, a little caught off guard as he returned his attention to the girl. Fetish club? "Red Crown? I think so?"

The girl smiled. "I think you'd like it. My Muggle ex-girlfriend used to be into all this," she said and gestured at the bag again. "We went a few times. Nice place. Clean," she added with a little nod of approval. "Not for me long term, but who am I to judge?"

Harry swallowed hard and looked back at Hermione to see if she was even remotely interested in any of what was just said to them, only to find her digging through her purse and pulling out a small notepad before muttering, "Limitation . . . Fetish club," under her breath.

* * *

Diagon Alley was packed with late holiday shoppers, and so when Harry and Hermione let their glamours fade completely near the entrance of Carkitt Market, they still went largely unnoticed. Having decided on their way out of the shop that they may as well find something to eat while they were out, Hermione let Harry take the lead. His hand was solid and warm against hers, his grip tight enough to keep hold of her without taking control completely, and the weight of it was a comfort as they made their way through the crowd. They hadn't even managed to discuss the nightclub that the shopgirl had mentioned before heads began to turn.

"John look! It's Harry Potter!" An excitable witch was the one to say the words out loud, and once she had, the shoppers around them all seemed to pause and glance about. Dozens of pairs of eyes paused on them as they kept walking, and Hermione imagined she could feel every glance skating over her and to the hand she'd nestled in Harry's. She felt his hold on her tighten for just a moment before relaxing again, and she watched as a stiffness seemed to radiate through him.

"Leave 'im be," said a man's voice, farther away now.

"But John—"

"Leave off, Mary."

The tension that had rolled over Harry like a wave seemed to lessen, and Hermione sent a grateful thought into the ether toward the man.

"Anywhere specific you wanted to go?" Harry asked, slowing his pace until she was side by side with him and glancing sideways at her. The crowd around them, though still buzzing with excited whispers, resumed their own activities, and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.

"Not really. Someplace Muggle?"

Harry nodded once and gave her a tight smile.

The rest of the walk was taken at a brisker pace, and it wasn't until they were out of the Alley completely that she felt Harry start to relax. His stride shortened and his grip on her loosened as the smile which had faded in the Wizarding crowd came back full force.

"I hate it," Harry mumbled once they were finally alone with only a random Muggle here and there passing them by but giving them a wide berth as they did. "I know most of them are just grateful," he added with a heavy, put-upon sigh, "but I struggle to pinpoint threats in a crowd now. How am I to know if someone shouting after me isn't just a random Death Eater that the Ministry forgot about?"

Hermione watched Harry's smile fade again as he spoke, and she understood the feeling he was confessing to her. Large groups of people, crowded streets . . . somewhere along the way, they'd all become a little more complicated. She supposed that would never really change, not after what they had been through, but she hoped that time would perhaps lessen the impact.

"I get it," she said, squeezing his hand in hers gently and matching his pace. "I was a mess at the ball, and it wasn't all down to Professor Slughorn. Sometimes, it's like I can feel other people's eyes on me."

Harry stopped walking, tugging on their connected hands until she spun around to face him. One hand still holding hers, he brought his other up to touch her face. His gaze was hard as he stepped forward, slowly backing her up against the nearest brick wall.

"How do my eyes on you feel?"

Her reaction was instantaneous, instinctual. She felt her pulse quicken, jumping at her throat as her teeth sank down hard against her lower lip. Did he expect a response? Here? She risked a glance down the road. There were Muggles about, more than she had noticed before . . . but she didn't know any of them, and would likely never see them again. What did it matter if she let her boyfriend— _No. Harry. Just Harry._ — push her up against a wall in front of them and make her wet?

"Hot," she admitted. A woman passed by them, her handbag brushing against Harry's coat as she went.

"Maybe I'll just never look away then," he whispered with a sly little grin. "Can't feel anyone else staring when I've got all of your attention, right?"

And then leant in and Hermione felt herself melt into the brick, felt her heart beating in her chest and her nipples tightening in new and interesting ways in response to his proximity. She wasn't exactly an exhibitionist, but being out in the open like this, with all of London bustling around them and the secret of where they had been only fifteen minutes ago buzzing through her, she felt the anticipation and excitement of their kiss mounting exponentially.

And then a camera flashed, the light so near and so bright she flinched and had to restrain herself from reaching for her wand. When Harry jerked away from her, already looking for his, she grabbed his wrist to stay him.

"What the fuck—" He said, his voice louder than normal. Several Muggles passing by paused and looked up at him before averting their gazes and moving on.

Hermione searched the street for several seconds before she caught sight of a bit of brightly coloured cloak disappearing around a corner.

"Reporter," she said, still clinging to Harry's wrist, her heart in her throat. "Wizarding. Christ, they're getting bold."

When she looked back up at him, he looked like a version of Harry she'd seen before. He was never a stranger to her, after all. But this was a version she'd not seen in many months. This was War Harry. His eyes were hard, blazing with absolute fury as he paced back and forth in the small space they occupied like a tiger in a cage. She was forced to drop her hold on him as he moved.

"They're gone now," she assured him, searching the street again and then forcing herself to smile up at him. "Maybe we should find a spot though?"

It wasn't that she minded being photographed overly much, but there was a sharp twinge of guilt that came when people took notice of Harry with her. As much as she loved being with him, loved the things they did together unabashedly and unashamedly . . . it wasn't exactly fair for her to flaunt their circumstances . . . not when the romantic aspects of their relationship weren't hers to keep. Not forever, at any rate.

"Our life will never be left alone," Harry muttered angrily, but he looked less furious and more fed up than anything else as he gently squeezed her hand, and something about the way he spoke soothed her. "C'mon. Let's at least get something to eat."

The restaurant Harry found two blocks down was small but well-appointed, and they were seated quickly by an elderly hostess with far too much makeup on and a cloyingly sweet scent which clung to her as she moved.

When they were alone again, Hermione pushed all thoughts of the photographer out of her mind. If the photo they'd taken ended up in the prophet, she would let herself feel guilty then . . . but now? Now she wanted to enjoy having Harry all to herself. She wanted to enjoy their date and flirt until he was rock hard in his trousers and begging her to finish her meal already and go home with him. And to that end . . .

She shifted in her seat a bit, unbuttoning her jacket and throwing it back over her chair before tugging at her top just enough to tighten it over her breasts. She was pleased to see that her new bits of jewellery were visible through the thin cotton, and she let go of the shirt before glancing coyly up at Harry.

He raised a single brow, bringing his hand up to his mouth to cover whatever expression he seemed intent on hiding. There were small crinkles at the corners of his eyes though. Scratching his beard, as though that was his intention the whole time, Harry brought his hand back down and muttered, "If anyone else takes notice of those, I might get cross with you, love."

Had he meant that to turn her on so completely, or was it just in her nature to be excited by the prospect of his displeasure?

"Promise?"

"I solemnly swear."

Satisfied, Hermione reached for her menu, opening it over the table and holding it up to shield her chest from his view. "Better safe than sorry, I suppose," she teased, and let her eyes rake over the lunch options. "What do you think, sandwich or salad?"

"Feel like I haven't had food in months that wasn't a big feast at school or Mrs Weasley shoving potatoes and roast at me," Harry said with a chuckle. "I'm going to have a chip butty," he added with a grin, as though he were a child getting to order his meal for the first time in his life.

It was endearing, but there was the barest hint of heartache behind the enthusiasm. Or perhaps it was only Hermione projecting her own loathing of his childhood circumstances onto his lunch order. If she could, she would hex Vernon and Petunia Dursley to hell and back for the way they had raised him.

She set her menu aside before she could follow that train of thought any further. If she didn't stop herself now, she'd be planning his aunt and uncle's murders in great detail before their meals even arrived.

"Anything to drink?" Their waiter arrived looking harried and exhausted. He was about their age, with hair spiked up at different angles and a denim vest over his shirt which sported the restaurant's logo.

"Just water, thanks," said Hermione. The young man's gaze settled on her as she spoke and the tired expression he had worn seemed to fade away.

"Whatever the pretty girl wants," he said, smiling now, and then gave her a quick wink before turning to Harry.

"And for you?"

Harry set the menu down on the table, not obviously hard, but with enough force to slap it against the wood. "Pint of lager," he finally said, using his now free hand to reach across the table, palm up and open. He never took his gaze off the waiter, but his expectations of Hermione were obvious.

She placed her hand in his without a second thought, not bothering to look up at the waiter beside them. Her heart fluttered against her ribcage madly as Harry's fingers curled around hers. There it was again, that insistent arousal at the idea of Harry staking his claim over her, right there for everyone to see.

"Alright, mate," said the waiter, sounding amused. "A water and a pint. Be back in a mo."

Hermione listened to his footsteps receding before she glanced up and toward his retreating form. "He seems nice," she said, trying to sound innocent and then watching for Harry's reaction.

Green eyes that had been following after the waiter turned on her. "Sometimes I think you purposely try to provoke me," he said, running his thumb over her knuckles. "I wonder what you _think_ you're trying to get me to do."

She could imagine about twenty different things she would gladly accept, but thought better of listing them. Instead, she lowered her gaze for a moment, glancing at his strong forearm and then back up to his lips.

"I wouldn't presume to suggest," she teased. "You're more than capable of making your own decisions."

Harry chuckled under his breath. "And a whole new bag of goodies to give me ideas."

Her blood went hot at his mention of the toys he'd purchased, of the restraints and the paddle that had made her shiver in anticipation. Painting hadn't worked out for Harry when she'd been trying desperately to find him an outlet for his pent up aggression, but as it happened, that was only because he was creative in a whole host of other, much more exciting ways.

"Here's those drinks." The waiter was back, and as he set down her glass, Hermione had an idea so foolhardy, so _wicked_ , that she was sure it would inspire a dozen more creative thoughts in Harry.

Releasing his hand, Hermione leant back in her seat, sighing once and tugging down on the hem of her shirt again. She felt the fabric brush against her stiff nipples, felt two pairs of eyes drawn to them, and then let go of the cotton before leaning forward again to take a sip of her drink.

"Thanks," she said, smiling briefly at the bright-eyed waiter before braving a look back at Harry.

He had stared at her throughout her entire performance, his fingertips lightly grazing the sides of the cold pint glass that had been set down in front of him, and Hermione nearly quivered in anticipation as she waited for his response.

"Cheers," Harry eventually said to the very distracted waiter, and then reached for his wallet, retrieving some Muggle money from one of the folds and tossing it on the table.

The waiter, attention drawn back to Harry at the sight of the money, blinked in confusion. "Nothing to eat today?"

Harry shook his head, offering the man no other explanation. "Home," he said specifically to Hermione. "Now."

Pulse thundering, thighs slick with her own arousal, Hermione sprang from her seat, unable to help the smirk she felt spreading across her face.

"Feeling creative?" she asked, her voice huskier than she'd meant for it to sound.

Harry gathered up their belongings and led her toward the door, holding one bag specifically out to her. "Don't forget your shopping bag."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, we both want to thank all of you for your continued amazing comments and thoughts to our well being right now. We are thinking of you all during this time and hope this chapter will provide some good distraction. The past few weeks have been incredibly rough on us both, but hopefully we're beginning to put ourselves back together again and will be writing more soon. ♥


	15. Chapter 15

Despite there being access to the Floo through the Leaky Cauldron, Harry insisted on Disapparating once they ducked into the alley behind the restaurant. They Side-Alonged, landing on the front step of Grimmauld Place which was, thankfully, still obscured from Muggle vision. Before either could even think about turning the doorknob, Harry dropped the bags he had been carrying and pressed Hermione's back against the door, one hand solidly fisted in her hair as he mouthed the side of her jaw.

"I'm starting to wonder if you like provoking me a little too much, Hermione," he whispered against her skin.

His free hand drifted to her jeans, and he tucked it in the back pocket to grip her arse and pull her hips forward to meet his. She gasped a little as he pressed against her, and the sound filled his already half-hard cock— the one he had been dealing with since she'd begun showing off her new piercings through her shirt at the restaurant.

"Do you have any thoughts on my theory?" Harry asked before nipping the side of her neck.

The smirk she'd been trying to hide from him seemed to fade away as she arched back against the door and into his touch. "I'm not trying to—" she began, but he cut off her lie with another quick graze of his teeth against her throat. "Harry!"

He pulled his hands out of her jeans and hair quickly, and the sudden, rough movements caused her to drop the single bag she had been holding, which landed with a soft thud next to the ones Harry had let go of earlier.

He kissed her, hard, drinking in the little gasp she made which was swiftly followed by a delightful moan. His hands fumbled for a moment at the buckle of his jeans, but quick enough, he drew down the zipper and grabbed her wrist.

"See what you've done?" Harry asked, panting against her parted lips as he urged her slender hand into the opening of his jeans so that she could feel him. Just the touch of her fingers against his erection made his cock jump in response.

"What have you done to me? I'm mad for you," he whispered before claiming her mouth again.

She didn't answer but the way she yielded to him, accepting his tongue eagerly as she gently stroked him right there on the doorstep, said everything he needed to know.

Harry felt like he had no control over anything he said or did. He wondered how long he had felt this way. It had started before this year, he _knew_ it, it _had_ to have. There had always been little moments throughout their friendship where a stray thought or image had flickered through his brain or his gaze had accidentally lingered on the dip of her blouse or the way her skirt clung to her thighs. Had he been unknowingly holding himself back for years only to have the dam break the moment she suggested they pursue something more intimate? All Harry knew now was that there was no stopping him from touching her so long as she gave him permission to, and he could not bear to think of the day that would come when she decided she was done playing house with him.

Pulling himself from her lips was torture, and Harry reminded himself that _he_ wasn't supposed to be the one being punished. He stared deeply into her dilated eyes, relishing the way she was struggling to catch her breath. Even as she touched him, Harry brought his own hand up to gently brush against the underside of her breast.

"Are they still sensitive?" he asked, hopeful, as he began nudging up the hem of her blouse with his other hand.

Her whole body seemed to quiver at the question, and Hermione shook her head. "Not painful," she answered, her voice thick with desire.

A young Muggle couple walking their dog let out a peal of laughter as they passed by the house.

Harry smirked and pushed Hermione's blouse up, revealing her breasts to him.

"Out here, I could do just about anything to you, and not a single passing Muggle could see." He knelt down, letting his breath wash over her new piercings.

"Please . . . _Fuck_."

She was begging already. God, he loved that tone on her.

"If you'd thought to wear a skirt, I'd already be inside of you," he muttered against her breasts, grinning when she let out an agonised whimper. "As it is, you decided to play games, and not enough time has passed." Harry stood upright, facing her as she tried to protest by pushing her chest forward. "I can't even play with them yet."

"You can. I swear you can. Please, Harry!" As she spoke, her own hands travelled up, cupping her breasts—still bare beneath where the fabric of her top was bunched—but stopping short of touching the tips. "I want you to."

He kissed her sweetly, almost chastely, and then tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "What would _that_ teach you?" Then he reached behind her and turned the knob, opening the door as a series of delightful ideas came to mind. "Get inside, but don't go far."

She hesitated for only a moment, almost pouting as she lowered her hands and let her blouse fall back down into place. Then she obeyed. Her steps were quick and efficient as she made her way into the hall, stopping near the sealed portrait of Walburga and crossing her arms behind herself to wait. And then she watched him, expectant and pleading with just the faintest hint of wariness in her posture, as if she knew the things he had in store for her and—though eager for them—knew they would be demanding.

When they'd begun their new relationship, Harry had worried that his baser urges would scare her. He had been so hesitant to go too far out of fear that she would look at him and be afraid. Instead, she looked like a perfect mixture of a prey animal—a deer in the headlights even—and a dangerous predator—hungry and _greedy_.

And he wanted to give her everything she desired . . . but make her beg for it. Make her earn it.

"Jeans off," he ordered as he grabbed the bags from the doorstep, shoving them inside the house next to the wall and leaving the front door wide open behind him.

She took her time doing as she was told, meeting his gaze as her fingers worked open the top button and slid down the zipper. The denim clung low on her hips, and she had to tug them a bit to work herself free, bending at the waist as she slid them down her legs and to the floor, where she kicked off her shoes and stepped out of them altogether. She wasn't wearing any knickers, and though he had known it before, the sight still made his mouth water.

Harry tugged his own jeans and pants down his hips just enough to free his cock, which he took firmly in hand, stroking it several times and watching as her eyes widened in excitement. He took a step toward her before placing his foot against the steel umbrella stand that had replaced the old troll's leg, pushing it forward until it sat right beside her.

"Leg up," he tapped the edge of the stand with his shoe, instructing her.

Again, she responded without saying a word, lifting her bare foot and settling it where he'd told her to. This time, however, her breath hitched as her legs parted, and her lips followed suit.

"Like this?" she asked at last, looking for all the world as if she wanted his approval.

He took one step closer, releasing his cock so that he could slip his fingers against her exposed sex.

"Good girl," he whispered, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel blood and magic rushing through his veins, and there was even a little spark, a vibration almost, at the tip of his fingers when he touched her.

"You seemed to want attention back at the restaurant. In public no less," his words came out with heavy breaths as he struggled to contain his desire for her. "What was I supposed to do there, Hermione? Anything we could have done we'd have had to be pretty fucking discreet about, wouldn't you say?"

She looked like she was struggling to breathe and hold position and think at the same time, and it was such a pretty look on her that he almost missed her response.

"Yes, Harry."

He slipped two fingers inside of her and watched with dark eyes as she sucked in a breath and her gaze widened.

"So here's my first idea," he began, feeling that magic pool at the tips of his fingers again. "I'm going to do whatever I want to you right now with the door wide open, and let's see if you can manage to keep quiet. Sound doesn't always get muffled by a Muggle-Repelling Charm, after all."

Her irises were molten as she nodded, and he felt her grow wetter around his fingers, felt her pulse once and flutter as she licked her lips before responding. "I can do that."

Snorting in disbelief, Harry grinned and dropped to his knees in front of her. "That so?"

"Oh Merlin," her eyes widened at the sight of him there, and he realised he'd managed to surprise her.

He was grateful that he'd saved this for when they _weren't_ at Hogwarts because the moment the tip of his tongue circled her clit—ever so softly, and never touching directly—she let out a cry so loud he was actually a little worried about having left the front door open. It had been a fun little threat, and while no one could actively see Number Twelve, Harry did still have neighbours on either side of the townhouse.

Even though she'd already failed the test, Harry couldn't find it in him to stop. Two fingers of his left hand still inside of her, he flung his right hand to the side, wandlessly slamming the front door shut before he wrapped his lips around her little, wet bundle of nerves. He wondered if she was even _trying_ to stay quiet, really, but Merlin, the noises she made with every swirl of his tongue and simultaneous pump of his fingers had his cock so hard that it was starting to ache.

"There! Yes, right there. Harry, please!" Her hands moved to his head as she sobbed the words aloud, her fingers threading through his hair and gripping tight as if she were looking for something to anchor her to the earth.

He pulled his mouth from her to look up, licking his bottom lip. "Are you going to come for me?" he asked, never stopping the movement of his fingers.

"Yes, yes . . . so close. Just a little more!" She was urging him back down, tugging with her hands unabashedly and practically whimpering.

He gave her pussy one last lick before withdrawing his fingers and standing up to face her. "Did I _say_ you could do that?"

The look of shock on her face was worth his throbbing erection and the needy desire to keep licking her until he lost all feeling in his tongue.

"N-no," she said, looking perfectly bewildered. "But I thought—"

"You thought you could tease me in public, let some random Muggle stare at your tits, and I'd _reward_ you for that?" Harry asked with a playful, mischievous grin. His parents might've been a bit horrified with the type of man he was being at the moment, but he was pretty fucking certain that Sirius would've been proud of him.

"No, I— Harry, I just wanted you to bring me home. I wanted us to be alone together."

_Home_.

She'd called Grimmauld Place "home".

"I'm in so much trouble," he whispered before cupping her face in his hands and kissing her.

Her mouth was as sweet as her cunt, and as he swept his tongue against hers, she moaned. Soon, she was trying to wrap herself around him, reaching for his cock and giving him adorable little pleas as she begged him for more. And yes, he was supposed to be _punishing_ her, but when she asked so nicely, he couldn't keep himself from giving her what she wanted.

Reaching one hand into the back pocket of the jeans that were struggling to stay up on his hips, Harry removed the condom he'd slipped in there earlier that morning and broke away from the kiss just long enough to use his teeth to tear the wrapper open.

"Keep that leg up," he said as he backed away and looked down to make sure the prophylactic slid up his shaft with ease. The last thing he needed now was to summon the box again and have it rain condoms all over the fucking foyer of his house.

"Looks like you've gotten quite handy at that," said Hermione, drawing his attention back up toward her. Her eyes were sparkling with anticipation and her own brand of humour that drove him mad.

"Very funny," Harry muttered as he lined his cock up against her, gripping her hip with one hand before sinking into her warmth and watching the amused little smirk on her face vanish in the wake of a breathy gasp let out between kiss-swollen parted lips.

He struggled to contain his reaction to the feel of her as she groaned aloud. A part of him worried that the first time had been a fluke or an inflated memory fuelled by desire and emotion, but he hadn't needed to be concerned because the way her body yielded to him, welcomed him, squeezed and pulsed around him was just as good as the night before . . . if not better.

"Fuck, Harry."

A shiver ran up the length of his spine, and with his free hand, he took one of her wrists, pressing it against the portrait frame behind her. He hadn't noticed before—too involved in making Hermione squirm—but he chuckled now at the thought that Sirius's mother was behind those magically sealed black curtains.

And he, the half-blood who had defeated Voldemort, was fucking a Muggle-born up against her frame.

Grinning, he kissed Hermione hard and pulled her hip tight against him as his thrusts took on a rougher pace, pulling out and slamming back inside of her so hard that her back knocked against the portrait frame, beating out a steady rhythm against the wall.

"Harder?" he asked.

It took her several tries between panting breaths and little shrieks, but when she told him, "Yes," he let go of her wrist in order to lift her hips up, letting her wrap her legs around his waist.

"Yes!" she cried out again as he pounded back into her, his cock so deep now he could feel her down to the base of him, could feel himself pressing hard against something deep within her that made her shout out in hoarse pleasure and clench tightly around him as her fingernails dug into the flesh of his shoulders.

At the feel of her nails, Harry groaned and squeezed the curves of her hips hard. They would bruise. He knew that now.

_She likes that_ , he remembered, and almost at the very thought of how the thing he thought was wrong with him, dark in him, brought her undeniable pleasure . . . "Oh god," Harry growled, his body tightening as his thrusts became erratic. "Fuck."

As he reached his climax, groaning into the hollow of her throat, Harry knew that they desperately needed to learn the Contraceptive Charm because he had a strange, new, primal desire to come inside of her with nothing separating them ever again.

It wasn't until after his own orgasm began to subside that he dazedly recognised the clenching and moaning and lowly uttered 'fuck's coming from Hermione for what they were.

"Harry . . ." The way she said his name as she came was almost enough to have him hard again. She drew out every syllable, every sound. She said it with her whole body, with everything she thought and wanted and _was_. When she said his name like _that_ , it was like he was the centre of her whole bloody universe.

Legs a little shaky, Harry lowered them both to the ground, her thighs still wrapped around him and his hands still holding her—his cock still inside of her.

Once he managed to catch his breath, he kissed her gently, reverently, knowing he couldn't bear to ruin the moment by saying what his stupid heart _wanted_ him to.

Letting go of her with one hand, he reached for the nearest shopping bag and fished out the wooden paddle. Licking his lips, he held it up to her.

"Go bend over the railing," he said and gestured with the paddle to the staircase.

Her eyes went wide again, and he could tell she found the command both intriguing and daunting. She hesitated, biting her lower lip as her brown eyes—still filled with the lazy brightness of her climax—darted back and forth between the paddle and the railing.

"Now?" she asked.

Just a little exhausted and still trying to fully catch his breath, Harry gave a little shrug and half of a smirk as he twirled the paddle in his hand. "Just because we came, you think I'm done with you for the day?"

Hermione gulped, her eyes going even wider for a moment, but before he could really examine the expression, she was rushing toward the stairs, stripping off her top in the process and then draping herself over the railing as she'd been told, legs slightly parted and offering him a brilliant view.

Harry took a deep breath, recovering a little from how swiftly she'd left his lap—and his now oversensitive cock—and slowly moved to stand up, removing the condom in the process and magically vanishing it.

"I have never appreciated your dedication to following explicit instructions more than I do at this—" another breath "— _exact_ moment."

* * *

She was still reeling, her whole body sweat-soaked and her skin so sensitive that every tiny draft of air made her tremble against the bannister. She'd just received the absolute best shag of her entire life, and now she was arse up over a handrail, her arousal dripping down her exposed thighs as the anticipation she felt slowly ate her alive.

Harry had been intent on spanking her, she was sure of it. He'd waved the paddle in her face sure enough and sent her to wait for him, and she'd practically run to obey. She'd fantasised about having her bottom paddled for _ages_.

And now, when it seemed certain it was about to happen . . .

Was Harry even _moving_ yet?

She twisted just enough so that she could peer over her shoulder.

"Face forward." His command was so casual she almost ignored it, but the way he was standing, tall and proud with his shoulders relaxed and his limbs loose . . . it made her want to be a good girl.

So she did as she was told and faced the opposite wall, head over the staircase as she heard soft footfalls approaching behind her and a pleasant shiver made its way from the small of her back up to settle between her shoulder blades. At last, the steps quieted.

"What are you—?"

"Hush."

She bit her lip.

Behind her, something solid-sounding thwacked against flesh. Not _hers_ , though she thought she startled enough it should have been. But no, her bottom wasn't stinging at all, only tingling with anticipation. And there it was again, the _sound_. Was that—?

"Are you smacking that thing against the palm of your hand to try and scare me?" Perhaps she sounded incredulous, but the soft huff of laughter behind her was enough to get her to turn her head over her shoulder once more to check whether she was right or not.

As it happened, looking back again was a mistake.

Harry's gaze darkened so quickly her knees went weak, and if she hadn't been fully draped over the bannister already, she knew she would have lost her balance and fallen onto the floor. Merlin, how did a single disapproving look from him make her insides turn into a writhing, molten mass of delight and trepidation?

She looked back to the wall, her hands grasping the rails in front of her legs now. She needed something to keep her in place, something to remind her that she was supposed to be staying put. She thought the wood at her palms and the memory of Harry's eyes gleaming at her with nefarious intentions might do the trick.

"The more you provoke me, the sterner I'll have to be, Hermione."

She managed to swallow back her response just in time. He'd told her to be quiet, hadn't he? Her grip on the rails tightened.

"Hmm." The sound he made was deep and thoughtful, and she held her breath, letting her eyes close as she waited. There was no point staring at the bare wallpaper. It was doing nothing to put her at ease, and in the past focusing on the _sensations_ had always made following Harry's instructions easier.

She wasn't sure how long she stood there waiting for him to move again, waiting for him to say something to her or smack her bottom or just fuck her again already . . . but by the time she heard the loud _thwack_ of wood hitting flesh again, she was barely phased.

Harry made the sound again, and when she didn't react, she heard him let out a breath.

"You're so fucking beautiful, you know that?"

She gasped at the first light brush of polished wood against her upper thigh but said nothing.

"Seeing you like this, ready to do whatever I tell you . . . take whatever I give you . . ." He trailed the paddle from the crease where her bottom met her leg, down to the inside of her thigh, just above her knee. "It makes me want to forget about paddling you and just sink into you here."

As he spoke, she felt him shift closer. On the last word, his fingers did just as he'd said, slipping into her and stopping only when he could go no further. Even then though, he pressed gently, stretching her just a bit and making her moan before easing off.

"Ooooh!"

"Didn't I tell you to be quiet, love?"

And then his fingers were gone and there was another smacking sound.

Hermione felt her entire body jerk forward at the impact. He didn't hit her hard, not really, but there was enough force to make heat bloom across her arse cheek instantly, enough to make her yelp and then bite her lower lip because she was supposed to be silent right now dammit!

"Good?" He was breathing hard as he asked the question, and she felt his fingers, still wet from his exploration of her, trailing over one hip.

She nodded, hoping he could see.

"Good."

The next blow came on the opposite cheek, just as firm as the first, and she gasped aloud. It stung, of course it did, but the warmth that spread wherever the paddle had touched her made her quiver and ache in all the right places.

"Again?"

Again. Could she take it? Could she stand there and do as she was told and let him rain flames across her backside, let her nipples pebble and her breath come shorter because she was so damned aroused she could barely keep herself steady over the railing?

"Don't stop. Please."

She spoke so quietly she wasn't sure he heard her, but when the third blow came it had her up on her toes crying out.

_Thwack_.

Her face flushed.

_Thwack_.

Her clit throbbed.

_Thwack_.

Her cunt clenched so hard the emptiness was almost painful.

_Thwack_.

"Harry!"

_Thwack_.

"Oh please. Please!"

_Thwack_.

She barely registered the sound of the paddle clattering to the floor, but Harry's hand skating over her bottom became her whole bloody world. He caressed her, speaking all the while, saying soothing things she couldn't focus on as she heard another gentle thunk and then felt warm breath on the still parted lips of her sex.

"Didn't get enough earlier," he groaned behind her, his lips fluttering against her skin as she lost her balance at last. Her knees went weak and she dropped backward toward him until she felt two strong hands on the backs of her thighs pushing her up. "Stay still."

And then he was devouring her, his lips and his tongue and his fingers working in tandem to make her scream into the stairwell. Soon, all she could feel was his mouth on her and the hoarseness of her own throat as she cried out and rose to a sudden, shattering peak.

She didn't know how long it went on for—or how she went from being draped over the bannister to being cradled in Harry's lap on the hardwood floor of the hallway—but by the time she came back to herself, Harry was crooning into her ear as she nestled against him.

"You're so beautiful," he was saying. "So pretty when I make you come. Did you know how absolutely gorgeous you are?"

She wasn't sure whether he expected an answer, but she thought not, and as he continued his praise, one hand running from her elbow to her wrist and back up again as he spoke, she knew she was right.

"So good and so smart. So bloody responsive and sweet. You're perfect, Hermione. I—"

He stopped talking so abruptly she looked up at him.

His jaw was tense as if he were clenching it to keep from speaking.

She wondered for a moment what he'd been about to say.

But before she could ask, he was standing, scooping her up into his arms and walking purposefully toward the stairs.

"Where are we—?"

He looked down at her, his eyes sparkling again with amusement.

"The rest of the condoms are upstairs," he said, starting up the steps at such a pace she worried he might stumble and drop her. Aware enough now to hook an arm around Harry's neck and secure herself as he raced upward, Hermione studied his thickly bearded jaw again. He didn't look tense anymore, and as she realised it she felt any concern she'd held melt away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is La_Matrona's birthday, and she wanted to celebrate by having us updating outlet as a gift! Not only that, but she's also started a new completely hedonistic delight of a kinky fic called Ready or Knot, so make sure to check that out (but omg definitely read all the tags cause Mother of Merlin!) ♥


	16. Chapter 16

"Oi! You lot! This whole house smells like sex! Get decent or get comfortable with a whole lot in a hurry!"

At the sound of Ron's voice, magically magnified and roaring throughout the house, Hermione dropped her book. Thankfully, she was already decent, but the idea that he could _smell_ what she and Harry had been up to over their holidays . . .

"He's exaggerating, isn't he?" she asked, looking up at Harry where he sat beside her on the sofa, a book of his own splayed across his lap and one arm over her shoulders.

Giving the room a courtesy sniff, Harry blankly looked at Hermione as though he were trying to force himself to look at ease. "Yes?"

"Christ."

She drew her wand and waved it hastily as she muttered a refreshing charm beneath her breath. Just as she finished, Ron burst through the double doors of the Drawing Room, one hand covering his eyes.

"Everyone decent?" he asked loudly as he bumped into the nearest table. "Ow, fucker."

"Language."

Ron scoffed loudly and attempted to peek at them through his fingers. "Please, I'm sure you both say worse things to each other when no one can hear you."

Harry snorted in amusement and then covered that snort with a cough into his fist, eyes wide and aimed directly down at his book.

Hermione glowered at him and then looked back up to Ron.

"That is _none_ of your business, you prat," she said with a huff. "Take your hand down, we're decent, for God's sake."

Ron lowered his hand and gave them a hesitant once over before breathing in audibly. "Lilacs. My mum loves that charm. Thanks for cleaning up a bit."

Harry flipped a page in his book, clearly not getting involved, though he did helpfully advise, "I'd suggest staying on the first floor if I were you, mate."

Hermione elbowed him in the side and leant down to pick up her own book from the floor. She'd been trying to finish up at least some of the reading that Professor Barebone had assigned before hols, but the reading was dry even for her, and she'd been hard-pressed to want to focus over the past few days given the myriad other activities available to her at Grimmauld Place.

"What are you doing here anyway?" she asked once she'd set the book aside. "Shouldn't you be at home? It's Christmas Eve."

"And I need a _reason_ to see my two best friends on Christmas?" Ron demanded, holding a hand to his chest as though he'd been fatally wounded. "Speaking of Christmas, though, you wouldn't happen to have any presents 'round here, would you?"

Rolling her eyes, she waved a hand toward the sparsely decorated tree across the room from them. "Yours is over there."

"And you can come back for it _tomorrow_ ," Harry added with a grin as he tossed his own book aside, returning his arm back around Hermione's shoulders. "It's not Christmas _yet_."

Nestling into his touch, Hermione let herself glance up to examine Harry's expression. He looked happy, and the thought put a warm glow deep in her chest. He'd been looking like that a lot over the past few days, and knowing that she was a large part of the reason why satisfied her almost as much as _he_ did.

"Stop looking at him like that, will you? I just had breakfast."

"Not to be a dick, but you've _always_ just had breakfast," Harry joked, and Ron flipped two fingers at him while laughing.

"Is there a reason you're here?" Hermione pressed, just the slightest bit irritated by his presence.

She loved Ron, she really did. He was one of her best friends in the world—like a brother to her, really, but there was something about having him _here_ —in the same room Harry had finished fucking her soundly in not half an hour past—that made her want to hex him. She hadn't realised how much she'd walled herself off from the rest of the world since they'd gotten off the train or how supremely content it had made her.

Ron made a face at her. "Just for that," he said, lifting his chin a bit, "I'm returning your gift."

"Ron," Harry said, shaking his head and chuckling.

"Fine," Ron muttered. "I'll let you have it. And I've got an early present too, but you're not going to like this one a bit." He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out a paper that had been folded to fit, and he tossed it to Hermione, snorting in amusement when she fumbled to catch it.

As she unfolded the paper, she instantly felt Harry's entire body grow rigid with tension beside her. She took one of his hands in hers as she settled the paper over her knee, stroking her thumb over his automatically.

"Figured you didn't get the _Prophet_ sent here, but I thought you both ought to know," Ron mumbled a bit, looking regretful.

Hermione looked down.

__

_Chosen One Chooses Love_

The headline was enough to make her pale.

"Fuck," she said.

"Language," Ron muttered, and Harry threw a pillow at his head.

"It's not even written by Skeeter," Harry growled, his countenance darkening. "Great. Now we have to worry about _regular_ reporters sensationalising every goddamned thing I do."

Hermione turned the paper over in her lap.

"Look at the photograph!" she squealed.

There, emblazoned across the cover, was a picture of the two of them. Harry had her pressed against a brick wall, his hand resting on her hip as his lips covered hers, brushing and delving as she yielded beneath him. It was erotic as hell, and if it hadn't been on the front page of the most popular wizarding news source in all of the United Kingdom, Hermione might have been able to appreciate it . . . as it was, however, it was positively indecent.

"Goddamnit!" Harry snapped and jumped to his feet, ripping the paper from Hermione's hands as he stormed across the room. Waves of heated magic flowed over his shoulders as he moved toward the door, the air crackling around him as he left.

When Hermione stood to go after him, Ron held up a hand. "Let him fume for a minute. You know how this shit gets to him."

She did, and if weren't for Ron standing there by the door, she might have gone after him anyway, might have soothed him and let him take his frustrations out on her in heated kisses and gentle tortures that sent her spinning . . .

But Ron _was_ there.

And now was hardly the time to distract Harry with sex.

She sighed. "I assume your mum saw this?" The thought made her want to curl into a ball and disappear.

Ron's ears went red, and he looked a bit uncomfortable as he nodded and reached up to rub at the back of his neck. "Just a bit, yeah."

"Perfect." Absolutely, bloody fucking perfect.

"She actually asked me to come round," Ron added, sitting in a nearby chair and looking like he wanted to fade into the upholstery.

"She send you with a howler?"

"Worse." His expression was serious now and he seemed to force himself to meet her gaze.

"What is it, Ron?"

"Yeah," he said, drawing the word out much longer than necessary before he finally seemed to pluck up the courage and get on with it. "She wants me to invite you for dinner tonight."

"Oh." Hermione let out a breath. "That's not so bad, really. I mean, it could be so much worse. Do you remember what she said when Skeeter published that article in fourth year? I mean, really this is good news! Right? Ron? Ronald?"

He was avoiding her gaze, and Hermione felt her stomach sink.

"What is it?" she asked with trepidation.

He swallowed and cleared his throat. "I heard her talking to Dad about it before I left. They're planning to give you and Harry the talk."

"The— _What_ talk?"

"You know," said Ron, raising his brows meaningfully. "The _talk._ "

"What, the _sex_ talk?"

Ron winced but nodded. "That's the one."

No. _No_. She adored the Weasleys. They were as much her family as they were Harry's at this point. As much theirs as they were Ron's . . . but if they thought that meant they were the ones responsible for educating them on _that_ particular topic—No!

"You've got to come," said Ron, interrupting her train of thought as he started to beg. "If you don't, I'm never gonna hear the end of it. Besides, the talk's not so bad. I've had it two or three times now at least."

Hermione shook her head.

"Absolutely not," she said. "And that's that."

Ron would just have to live with the disappointment, and there wasn't _anything_ in the world that would convince her otherwise.

* * *

She wasn't sure _how_ it had happened or when she had agreed to it, but somewhere between Harry cooling off and heading back in to join them and Ron leaving with a skip in his step, Hermione had relented.

"You see, dear, congress between a witch and her wizard can be such a special, beautiful part of the relationship. But you must be certain before you partake because there are risks too!"

Mrs Weasley was in her element, it was as if she'd rehearsed her speech a hundred times before and settled on just the right words to get her point across.

Hermione wanted to Avada herself.

"Pregnancy is, I'm sure you're aware, one of the greatest risks of engaging in intercourse." Molly chuckled to herself. "You can take _my_ word on that. So you've got to ask yourself every single time you decide to make love: 'am I ready to have a baby in nine months?'"

Hermione eyed the closed door behind Molly, beyond which the family was still gathered at the dinner table. She desperately wanted to Disapparate through it.

"Of course if you _aren't_ ready to be a mother, and who could blame you, dear, with such a bright future ahead of you, there are precautions a woman can take to prevent such things. Of course, even in our world, no method is completely foolproof," Molly said as though she knew it all too well. "But I'd wager it's a sight more reliable than a bit of plastic shoved on the sausage if you take my meaning. Besides, the _feel_ of it is something that shouldn't be hindered."

Oh God. Hermione didn't know how much more she could take.

"But it's important, even beyond the risks, that you be ready for such a big step. I know you and Harry care for one another very deeply indeed. You've grown up together, after all. That such a close and caring relationship has turned into more, I don't think surprises any of us. But even when you're in love, it's important to consider more than just how you're feeling in _this_ moment. You've got to think about the future, about how you'll feel a week from now. A month from now. Fifty years from now! With something so intimate, and something so precious as love, you want to do all you can to minimize the risk of _emotional_ damage."

Hermione blinked. "Love?"

"Yes, exactly. You're such a smart girl. Love is what makes giving yourself to another person absolutely magical. If there's love, real, honest, lasting love, intimacy is the pinnacle of our existence, I promise you." Molly paused, and Hermione was vaguely aware of her sidelong glance and the gentle smile on her face. "But maybe you already know that. And here I am, an old woman prattling on."

In another second, Hermione found herself enveloped in a firm embrace, her cheek pressed up against a soft surface. She let her eyes close, let herself remember what it had been like to be held like this by her own mother.

"We just love the both of you so much, dear. We want you to be happy. And we're happy for you. You're like our own, you know."

She let herself be held until Molly was satisfied, feeling in a fog as the older woman patted her and clucked and then left her alone to 'think on what we've discussed for a while' with many teary assurances that she was cared for.

When she was gone, Hermione stared after her, a single phrase from her twenty-minute long speech playing over and over in her own head.

_You're in love_.

Mrs Weasley had assumed—and who could blame her, given what she'd seen plastered on the _Prophet?_ —but something about hearing the phrase had shaken Hermione to the core.

Was she? In love?

She dismissed the idea almost as soon as she'd entertained it.

No. She couldn't be. She and Harry were . . . well, they certainly weren't like siblings . . . but what they had wasn't meant to be permanent. To love him—to be _in_ love with him—It would only hurt her in the end. Because Harry deserved more; she knew it in her bones. More than a broken bit of girl who had thrown love away hand over fist when she'd had it. He deserved better.

And she deserved to be alone. Not now, because she didn't think she could bear to give up what they had yet . . . not when it was so new and made her feel so bloody content and centred for the first time since the war had ended . . . but eventually.

Eventually . . . she'd have to let him go.

* * *

Seeing Hermione's photo in the _Prophet_ had practically set his blood on fire.

He remembered, all too vividly, the way she had been harassed during their fourth year when Rita Skeeter had filled the paper with torrid lies. Harry hated the attention that was always hyper-focused on him, whether good or bad, but he felt damned near homicidal at the thought that Hermione would suffer because of this . . . because of _him_.

Thinking of her many scars, he asked himself, "Hasn't she suffered enough because of me?"

It was thinking of the war, and how she and Ron were the only thing to get him through it, that had forced Harry to go back into the room where he was assaulted with the information that the Weasleys wanted to see them for dinner.

Thoughts of the Burrow brought a quick sense of peace to his mind.

Seeing Hermione's photo in the Prophet had to be the _worst_ thing that could possibly happen to him that day.

Or so he had thought.

"You see, son," Arthur cleared his throat as he took a seat in his shed, a shabby little building held together with magic and filled to the roof with Muggle trinkets. "When a witch and a wizard love each other very much . . ."

There were no other seats, so Harry sat down on a pile of suitcases stacked five high. Just a bit of weight and the whole thing toppled over, taking him with it, straight to the floor where he decided to just . . . stay there.

"Merlin, Harry, are you all right?"

With as quiet of a voice as he could manage, Harry mumbled, "Yes."

"Well, good good." Arthur cleared his throat again, wiping what might've been sweat from his palms off on his trousers before looking around the shed as though a script for this atrocious nightmare would appear out of thin air. The man had presumably given this talk to all six of his sons, and Harry now worried that each one had been spontaneous. God, poor Ron.

Then, as Arthur smiled and picked up a nearby planter with a single tulip in it as though a lightbulb had just sparked to life, Harry's stomach gave a lurch as he realised exactly _why_ this talk was being given: Arthur Weasley presumed him to be a virgin.

Because Arthur had no idea that Harry had ever had sex before.

With _Ginny_.

"A woman is like a flower," Arthur began to say with an innocent smile on his face.

Harry felt the sweat begin to bead up at his hairline.

"They are very delicate."

Thinking of the first time Ginny had gripped his cock with a smirk and said, _Oh is all of this for me?_ Harry closed his eyes and tried not to throw up.

"Delicate," he eventually muttered in uncomfortable agreement, still refusing to open his eyes.

He wasn't sure how, but whatever awkwardness had been clearly felt between the both of them when they'd walked into the shed was now evidently one-sided. Arthur looked in his element as he held up the little planter, pointing to the soil while talking about how to fertilize a relationship with admiration and respect, gesturing to the stem and mentioning being the backbone that a witch needed to rely on in times of need, rubbing the leaves between two fingers while saying how Molly had always preferred a good back rub—

And that was about the time the blood in Harry's ears began pounding out all sound.

Not a single fucking word went through after that, but Harry forced his eyes back open to and his expression to look as innocent as humanly possible.

Arthur Weasley was the most decent man Harry had ever met, but he'd also had a hand in raising some of the most ruthless—in a _mostly_ good way—people that Harry knew: Ginny's Bat Bogey Hex was a thing of beauty. Bill went to work every day with goblins, for Merlin's sake. Charlie preferred the company of _dragons_ to people. George . . . it didn't need to be said. Harry didn't want to think about it. Even Ron, Harry's own best friend, had a temper on him to rival a banshee.

Harry swallowed hard, deciding that he'd _never_ seen Ginny naked. Nope. Never happened. Even if it had happened, it was a dream he involuntarily had. He could fake that. He could pretend. Hell, he could fight off the goddamned Imperius Curse, he could damn well fake being a virgin for a few more minutes.

"Now," Arthur continued, though Harry was only picking up a muffled sound and only about half of the words, "I know how you were raised, and it's not as though they teach these things in school, but I believe the Muggles call them . . . condos?"

"Condoms," Harry blurted out, instantly regretting everything because for as innocent as he hoped he looked, Arthur still raised a single brow that screamed _"Aha! I knew that you would know what they were, you rotten daughter-defiling scoundrel!"_

"Good good," Arthur eventually said, clearing his throat— _again_. "Because Hermione is a bright young girl and—"

Harry felt a drop of sweat finally fall down the side of his head.

Because this wasn't about Ginny. No, no, no. This was about _Hermione_.

Arthur had compared her to a delicate flower.

_Delicate_? Harry wanted to laugh. That was until he began wondering if the blouse she was currently wearing covered up the marks he'd left that morning on her shoulder. Thank goodness it was winter, and she'd worn her jeans. Any skirt she owned could probably show teeth marks on her thighs from the right angle.

Delicate? Ha!

"I promise," Harry began to say, hoping Arthur couldn't see right through him, "we're being— _will be_! We _will_ be . . . y'know, safe."

A furrowed brow was all Arthur gave him in reply before he let out a little sigh. "You're a good lad, Harry. I have to admit, most of my boys put me through a bit of hell when I had to talk to them. Fred and George in particular. Especially since I ended up accidentally giving George the talk twice," he said with obvious embarrassment before holding out a hand. "Now, let's get up off the floor, my boy."

Relieved that this was over, Harry wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and then took the man's hand gratefully, pulling himself up to his feet. "I do appreciate how much you and Mrs Weasley care. And I'm glad Mrs Weasley isn't upset about this."

Arthur shook his head as he opened the door of the shed, guiding Harry out of it. "Well, she did manage to write a letter to the paper this morning," he mumbled. "But she's quite happy that the two of you are in love."

Harry felt himself pale.

"The photograph was a little . . . Erm," Arthur cleared his throat _loudly_ one final time as he patted Harry on the back again. "But well, I remember being your age."

It had been boiling up inside of Harry for longer than he knew. Warring with himself over this word or that word or what definitions really meant. He knew that he wanted Hermione, wanted her with him always, wanted to be by her side, wanted to have her in his bed . . . and he knew it was dangerous to even think about that, all things considered. And he _had_ often wondered what his own father or even Sirius or Remus would say to him if he could have asked their advice. What would he tell them about her? About how he felt about her?

But they were all gone.

And standing there with Arthur, the closest thing to a father that Harry had ever known outside of what few memories he had of Sirius, Harry couldn't keep it in any longer.

"I'm in love with Hermione."

The breath he exhaled carried with it all the weight on his shoulders and the tension in his spine. His limbs suddenly felt weightless, and his joints suddenly ached with the release of it all. When his own words reached his ears, he felt the corners of his eyes prick a little, so he sucked in a sharp breath, hoping to create a reverse effect.

Arthur smiled at him. "Of course you are, lad. Any fool who took one look at the two of you could see that."

"I haven't . . . I haven't told her," Harry quietly admitted, feeling like a coward.

Taking a step back toward him, Arthur put a hand back on Harry's shoulder. He didn't say a word, but he smiled in a way that brought an immense amount of comfort. Harry secretly hoped that Molly was making Hermione feel the same way, though he thoroughly doubted it.

"I'm afraid," Harry finally admitted.

"It's scary," Arthur said, nodding. "Scarier, I'd reckon, than anything else you've had to face before. And let's be honest, you've faced quite a bit."

Harry laughed and sniffed. "Just a smidge."

Before he knew it, Harry felt himself wrapped in a tight hug, and he exhaled again, shocked that even more weight was pulled off of him with every breath he let go.

"Can I offer you some advice?"

Nodding, Harry said, "Always."

Pulling back, Arthur looked him right in the eye and said, "After everything you've been through, everything that was taken from you, everything you were forced to do because others just didn't . . . well, we just _didn't_ —Harry, love isn't something that _you_ should have to be afraid of. It shouldn't be something you have to hide."

"Ahem!"

Both men turned and looked back toward the Burrow to see Ginny standing there with her arms folded. "Mum's wondering what's taking so long."

Arthur clapped Harry on the back once more. "Better get on inside," he said with a bright smile.

Harry let him go ahead, stopping to lean forward, putting his hands on his knees as he tried to steady his own breath and heartbeat. He took in several deep breaths before Ginny's scuffed trainers appeared in his vision.

He stood up and raised an eyebrow at her. "Do I even want to know what kind of talk your mother gave Hermione?"

Ginny snorted indelicately. "Oh, it's wretched. Traumatising, even."

"Great," Harry groaned and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. "Out of curiosity, do either of your parents know that we . . .?"

"Oh fuck no," Ginny said with an emphatic laugh.

"Thank Christ," he said, relieved.

"But," Ginny muttered, nudging him in the shoulder, "after seeing that photo in the paper, there's no way everyone in my family isn't _very_ aware that you and Hermione are _totally_ fucking each other."

Harry sighed, wanting to crawl into a hole. "Great."

"And you've got to go eat dinner with all of them now," Ginny pressed.

"Yep."

"They probably all think you did it before you came over here."

"Gin—."

"I bet George has even speculated positions."

Harry groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "For fuck's sake."

"Calm down, Potter," Ginny said with a laugh as she began walking back toward the house ahead of him. "As long as you don't finger her under the dinner table, you should be fine."

* * *

Dinner was delicious, warm, and filling like it always was when Molly Weasley sat you down at her table. The jokes only lasted so long. George was in fine form, but without Fred there to bounce off of, his attention didn't last as long as it used to. Once everyone began eating, the smell of the food and various Christmas-scents drifted over the entire house, and Harry found himself taking Hermione's hand under the table, giving it a squeeze.

This was it. This was exactly what he wanted his life to be, and when Hermione turned to give him a brilliant smile, he knew he wouldn't settle for anything less.

Back at Grimmauld Place, that same feeling followed him.

The portions of food had been more than enough, and Mrs Weasley always insisted on everyone having seconds of everything, so he was more than happy to just fall into bed with Hermione, putting his arm around her and kissing the top of her head.

"So, we're home. You can finally say. How bad was it?"

"So fucking bad," Hermione admitted. "Like, honestly just terrible."

She was giggling, and she turned her face in against his chest to muffle the sound briefly before looking back up at him. There was something sombre in her gaze for a moment that he didn't understand, but soon it was buried beneath another wide grin.

"She called it a _sausage_ , Harry."

He grimaced, suddenly thankful that all he got was a flower metaphor, half of which he'd tuned out completely.

"Christ, I thought _mine_ was bad. But at least _you_ didn't have to pretend you'd never had sex with one of their children. I think I get points for that."

The gales of her laughter were music to his ears.

"I'd forgotten about that," she confessed. "Oh god, that must have been miserable. Do you think Arthur suspected?"

Shaking his head, Harry said, "I don't think so. Either I'm a very good actor, or he's content to live in denial. Either way, I came home with all my limbs intact, so I'm going to call it a win."

He pressed his lips against her hair once more, inhaling slowly and remembering how freeing it had been to admit his feelings for her to someone. "Despite everything with the _Prophet_ , it turned out to be a really good day. Don't you think?"

She nodded, humming her assent. "Did you get a chance to catch up with Ron? He mentioned something about wanting to talk to you before we left. I'd forgotten."

Harry smiled to himself. "Yeah, we chatted a bit. He's been owling Lavender. She agreed to let him take her on a _real_ date."

Hermione looked up, her mouth wide with surprise. "She didn't. After the hospital wing thing and everything?"

"Well, that was years ago," Harry said with a shrug. "I think we've all changed a bit since then. Besides, you know how they were during the Yule Ball this year."

"She made a voodoo doll of him during sixth year, Harry. She put it in a jar beneath her bed. I had to vanish the foul-smelling thing myself."

He let out a deep, rolling laugh, all the food still digesting in his stomach making his side hurt with every bellow. "You knew she'd done that? Hermione, you've been pushing him to get back together with her for weeks now! Maybe even longer."

She laughed again. "Yes, well, I wanted to be encouraging because I knew he liked her. I didn't think she'd actually go for it. I'm surprised." She pressed her nose to his chest, and he could feel her lips brush against him as she continued. "Happy though. They both deserve something good."

Harry nodded, laying back down against his pillow and pulling her tight up against him as his thoughts drifted a little. "Yeah," he said quietly, his heart racing. "I mean, after everything they've been through . . . they deserve . . . love. Right?"

It took so long for her to reply that he worried she'd fallen asleep, and when she finally did, he hung onto her every word.

"Yes. They do. You all do."

_You_.

Harry blinked.

Blinked again.

Then he shifted onto his side, adjusting her in his arms. He just stared at her, there in the dark, wishing this wasn't so hard. Wishing he wasn't so afraid. He thought of Arthur's words, of how love shouldn't be something he was afraid to have or say. But then he recalled how the man had compared witches to flowers. Delicate, he'd called them. Hermione was certainly not that.

But _this_ was.

This thing between them.

And Harry desperately didn't want to break it.

"I don't know what I deserve," he eventually said with a sigh as he brushed his thumb against her lips, pausing to press a chaste kiss to her mouth and took one of her hands in his. "But I'm happy with this. You."

He couldn't quite see her face in the dark when she replied, but he felt her breath against him as she sniffed and then let out a shaking breath.

"I'm happy too." Her voice was quiet. Strained. But her hand was warm in his, gripping him tightly as if she were afraid he might pull away. "I'm really, really happy with you."

"I'm glad," Harry said, letting out a relieved exhale. She sounded just as terrified as he felt, so maybe . . . maybe . . . if he was brave enough for both of them and just—

"Hermione, I'm—"

Her free hand wrapping around his neck and her lips pressing up against his stopped him from saying anything more. She kissed him desperately, and he could feel her hand in his clenching tightly as she rolled onto her back, trying to pull him with her as she went—trying to settle him over her.

Kissing her was second nature to him by now, and following her lead—while not his favourite when in the middle of activities—came easily. Her thighs fell on either side of his hips, and it was too easy to let his free hand drift down to caress her bare hip. They'd stopped dressing for bed days ago, which made absolutely everything just that much easier at all hours of the night.

God, but she was tempting.

Still . . .

She held onto his hand tightly, her grip never loosening.

Harry pulled back, breaking their kiss. "Hermione?"

"Please Harry. I need you. Need this. Now."

"Well, you know how I like to give you what you ask for, but maybe we should—"

"Molly taught me the contraceptive charm after dinner," she breathed, uttering the words directly against his ear.

_That_ sure as hell stopped him in his tracks.

He mentally fought for a moment, warring with the desire to confess his heart to her, but ultimately he realised that the first time he told her he loved her would not be like this. Not in the dark when he couldn't look into her eyes. Not after a morning where her reputation had been raked through the press—he wasn't even sure how bad it had been, as he couldn't bear to read the bloody article. And he wouldn't blurt out "I love you" right after she'd brought up getting sex charm tips from Mrs Weasley.

No. It could wait.

He would wait.

"On with it then, witch," he said with a laugh, smacking her thigh sharply.

She was worth waiting for.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter this week because you guys are so awesome and we were boosted with creativity to write more thanks to your AMAZING comments! ♥

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Hermione knew she must sound terrified, but it was only partially because she _was_. "I mean I've barely read more than a few paragraphs of the books we bought, and we've known what all this is for a week. A week, Harry! That's not long at all."

Beside her, Harry quirked a brow. "Do _you_ want to go?"

_Did_ she?

"No. We're next in line. That would be silly. I just . . . What if we aren't ready?"

She studied his expression as he took his time replying. They hadn't bothered to glamour themselves or Polyjuice for this outing. They'd Apparated directly from Grimmauld place to Muggle London and hadn't seen a need. Now, as she watched him, she was glad of it. If she was going to do something like this, something so new and out of character for who she had been before the war, she wanted to do it with Harry. Harry's face, Harry's body, Harry's hand in hers.

"You know me," he said at last, shrugging once as he spoke. "I'm more of a hands-on learner anyway."

She laughed, her breath catching as the bouncer motioned them forward. This was it.

The girl at the front counter took their money and another bouncer let them past a velvet rope as the sound of loud music, thumping bass, and raised voices grew louder. Once they were fully in the room, Harry slightly in front of her as he kept a firm hold on her hand and pushed his way through the crowd, Hermione let herself examine her surroundings.

It looked like the Yule Ball on very kinky steroids.

The entire room was filled with so much leather and latex she had trouble differentiating the people from the furniture for a moment, and the pulsing music had all of the club goers swaying and grinding in tandem. Suddenly, she felt under-dressed.

It wasn't that she hadn't made an effort, but there wasn't exactly a class at Hogwarts about what to wear to a sex club. After more time than she'd spent prepping for the Yule Ball fourth year, she'd settled on a short, pleated black skirt, a pair of chunky black heels, and one of Harry's button up's transfigured black and then tied up above her midriff. She'd thought she looked nice—sexy, even—with the thin gold circlet Harry had gifted her for Christmas around her neck. She wasn't sure where he had found it, or when he had found the time to skim through their books enough to be so taken with the idea of her wearing a collar to show she belonged to him . . . but when he'd clasped the thing around her neck, the ostentatious ruby nestled over the clasp right against the hollow of her throat, she'd been unbearably aroused.

"Okay?" His mouth moved against her ear as she spoke, and Hermione realised she'd been lost in thought. Forcing a smile, she nodded.

"Little bit intimidated," she confessed above the din.

Harry, who was looking very handsome indeed in his tight black jeans and a leather jacket she knew had belonged to Sirius, gave her a reassuring smile.

"It's a lot," he admitted. And then he leant in, kissing her gently on the lips before releasing her to look around the room again.

She wasn't sure how long they stood there, frozen near the bar looking like a pair of possums caught in headlights, but by the time she'd become used to the loud music and the sea of black fetishwear, Harry had already managed to secure them each a drink. They'd agreed before coming they would limit themselves to one at the start of the night, just to help them loosen up before they explored further. _If_ they explored further.

"Hi!"

Hermione nearly spilt her drink at the sound of a high, clear voice beside her. Turning her head, she caught sight of a thin brunette in the tiniest black dress Hermione had ever seen. She was clinging to the arm of a bear of a man, who was looking Hermione over appreciatively.

"How's your night going?" asked the woman.

Hermione looked to Harry, who wrapped a possessive arm around her waist, and then back toward the brunette.

"Good, thanks," she said. "Yours?"

Was that okay? Had she said the right thing? Was it normal to just chat with other couples in a place like this?

Hermione swallowed.

"First time?" asked the woman.

Hermione felt her cheeks and her chest grow warm. "That easy to spot?"

The other woman giggled.

"Just a little," she said. "You look terrified. I'm Courtney, by the way." And then she hopped up onto the open stool beside where Hermione and Harry stood, her man at her back.

"James," Harry said in introduction, flashing Hermione a brief look. They might have been in a Muggle establishment without glamours, but you couldn't take the paranoia caused by war out of the man. "Is it always . . ." he began to say, looking around. "I mean, it looks a bit like a dance club, I think. Didn't expect it to all be so . . . open, I s'pose."

"It's not always so crowded," said the man at Courtney's back. His voice was thick and deep and he had a Russian accent Hermione had a bit of trouble deciphering.

"This is Ivan," said Courtney. "He's my pet."

Hermione's eyes widened of their own accord, and she took a sip of her drink to try and hide her expression. "Pleasure," she said, once she had managed to compose herself.

"And you are?"

Hermione, who had forgotten she had yet to introduce herself, said the first name that came to mind.

"Lily."

Harry visibly blanched, turning to look at her with a briefly horrified expression. "No."

Courtney laughed, gently stroking Ivan's arms. "Don't worry about it, love. Few people ever give their real names. I bet you'll meet more than one 'Sir', 'kitten', or even 'Daddy' tonight."

Hermione, whose face was hotter than the surface of the sun, nodded gratefully. "Sorry," she said because she couldn't help it. "It's just . . . new. You can call me . . . " she thought for a moment. "Mia." It was a sound _in_ her name, after all.

Courtney smiled at her, reaching out to put one small hand on her forearm and batting her lashes briefly. "Hi, Mia." And then she looked up at Harry. "You and your Dom interested in some play tonight? Ivan and I are looking for another couple to keep company with."

"Play?" Harry asked, his grip on Hermione's waist tightening. "You mean with like . . . Umm . . . I don't want to be offensive, but I don't think so."

Courtney's grin was brilliant as she hopped off the stool.

"That's okay, love. Maybe next time?" And then she patted Hermione's arm once and turned to Ivan. "Come on, pet. Let's leave this sweet couple be."

Once they had gone, Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding. "So that's how it works," she mused. "I'd wondered."

"Wondered what?" asked Harry.

Hermione shrugged. "How swingers found people to . . . you know. Have sex with. It hardly seems the sort of thing they could bring up after Sunday service."

"Did you—?" Harry blinked rapidly, his gaze wandering around the room as though he were being a bit overstimulated with everything around them. "I mean, it's not really my place to speak for _both_ of us," he said, though he did so through a tightened jaw. "I mean, were you thinking about—?"

"About what?" She frowned. And then, at the panicked expression on Harry's face, she got it. "Oh! Swinging? No! No. I just . . . you know, curiosity. Not for _me_. Us. Just, in general."

His shoulders visibly relaxed at that, his attention immediately drawn past the dance floor. "Okay, good. Same page." He swallowed hard.

"Same page," she echoed.

"I think I see some signs back there," Harry gestured. "I'm not exactly up for dancing. Maybe we could just keep exploring? You can tell me if you want to leave anytime you want, though."

Hermione nodded her agreement.

Across the crowded dance floor was a long dark wall with eclectic art hung up haphazardly above long comfortable looking sofas. Most people were sitting down and enjoying drinks and conversations there. Outside of a few people wearing masks or what looked like leashes, it could have been an average nightclub—not that either had any real experience in one. The Three Broomsticks and Hog's Head were as adventurous as an evening out drinking as anyone they knew really got.

Past the line of sofas was a darkened hallway where some disappeared into. Above was a sign that flashed white neon that read: _Consent_. Beyond it, there was the glow of what was likely more signs, though none could be seen from their current position.

Before they had a chance to head across the room, a good-looking man approached with a cordial smile. He glanced at Hermione's neck, acknowledging her collar, and then immediately turned to Harry. "She's very pretty. Would you like to—?"

"Nope," Harry blurted out quickly, much to Hermione's gratification.

The man smiled kindly, looking not at all offended before holding up both hands in supplication. "Just fine, mate," he said with a nod. "That's why we ask first."

The man, another Dom, Hermione supposed, receded into the crowd, and she felt Harry take her hand again, gripping it firmly in his larger one and leading her toward the row of sofas. They passed them quickly, and soon they were in another corridor, this one less crowded and less loud. Doors were lining the long space, each with a sign above it.

"Do we just go in?" Hermione asked. She wasn't sure of the etiquette. Were these rooms private or public?

Harry held onto her as they both observed the people around them. Some wandered into a room, closing the door behind them, but others lingered outside for a moment, glancing into the open spaces before moving on or stepping inside.

He gestured in that direction. "Maybe we take a look?"

Hermione swallowed and nodded, letting him lead her on to one of the open doors where another couple was lingering. When they got there, and she shifted so she could see past Harry's broad shoulders, she almost gasped.

There, in the very centre of the room, was what looked like a large, wooden X. It dominated the space, commanding the attention of every single person in its purview, and on it, hung a lithe young man, completely bare, with his front facing the cross and his arse striped over with red marks that looked angry and raised

A woman dressed finely, but almost casually compared to at least seventy percent of the rest of the club stood to the side of the cross with what looked like a whip in hand with multiple strands of leather flowing down from the handle. She wore a lovely red dress with simple heels and a plain black mask across her eyes.

"Such a good boy," the woman said to the man on the cross, caressing his face affectionately before running a gloved hand over his back and gently touching the marks.

Hermione felt more than saw the way Harry turned her into him protectively. His hand held onto her wrist, his thumb gently stroking her forearm.

When the woman brought the whip back to strike the man, he let out a yelp of pain that was swiftly followed by a pleasurable moan.

Harry leant in and whispered, "I don't think this is for me."

Her voice almost cracked when she answered, "Let's go."

The second room they approached had a closed and locked door, but a large window that several people stood outside of, peering in. It looked like one of those two-way mirrors often shown in police shows on the telly. Inside the room, a woman was naked on a comfortable looking reclined table that reminded Hermione of the one in Nigel's room at the tattoo parlour. The girl's hands and feet were tied down with cuffs to the sides of the table, leaving her completely on view to the surrounding crowd.

A man appeared at her side with something in his hand that Hermione couldn't quite see due to the gathered viewers, but there was a long electric cord visible from behind him.

"What's he holding?" Hermione whispered, pushing up onto the tips of her toes for a better view. "Oh Lords. Is that what I think it is?"

"That reminds me," said a woman up front, "I need to buy a new wand."

Harry jolted, grabbing Hermione and almost shoving her aside as he stepped forward to look. After a moment, though, he cleared his throat and looked back at her, embarrassed, as he stepped back behind Hermione and whispered, "That's not an umm . . . not a real wand."

Hermione grinned. "No," she said, peering back into the room and watching as the woman writhed on the chair. She looked how Hermione often felt when Harry was in rare form. Miserable, but happy about it.

Pressing her thighs together, Hermione wondered for a moment if leaving her underthings at Hogwarts had been a bad idea. With her skirt as short as it was, she worried the proof of her burgeoning arousal wouldn't go unnoticed. Because watching the woman like that, watching her open her mouth to moan and beg for release, was making her remember just what it felt like to arch her own back and beg for the very same thing.

Harry's hands settled on her hips, and she could feel his breath on the back of her ear as he whispered, "Maybe when we graduate Hogwarts, I could buy us one of those to celebrate."

She bit her lower lip, hard.

"Mhm."

God, she was getting so turned on. Was that even okay? She wasn't sure whether Harry would want to act on it here, or whether he only wanted to explore.

"Should we, uh . . . move on?" she asked, trying to drag her eyes away from the scene.

Harry replied by running his nose against the back of her ear. "I'm definitely interested in seeing what else this place has to offer."

* * *

Harry had been more than nervous about going to the club.

Nevermind not knowing what he was going to find there or that they'd both agreed to go without glamours, but what did one even wear to a sex club? Thankfully, Sirius's wardrobe had at least one option. The leather jacket felt like a strange protective ward of its own, giving him both a strange sense of safety and an odd boost of confidence at the same time.

Hermione, of course, looked flawless.

Which was why he wasn't surprised that they'd already been approached twice. Who _wouldn't_ want her? Harry counted himself stupidly lucky to be with her and was damned if he'd let anyone else step into the place that he'd happened to luck into.

Watching her as they moved around the club and her nerves clearly gave way to something else, Harry was half tempted to take her straight home. They only had maybe another week left home at Grimmauld Place before they were due back at Hogwarts, and he had a mental list of all the things he still wanted to fuck her on top of.

But then he saw how she watched that girl in the room.

Even in the dark, he could see the way her posture changed, the way her legs shifted, the way her cheeks got a little more colour than before. Gods, he knew that look. Just the thought of her standing there, squirming a little at the sight, had him adjusting himself in his jeans. He tried to be subtle about it before chuckling quietly, noticing that several other club patrons were not nearly as subtle or even attempting to be. Hell, there was a bloke a few feet away wearing nothing but what looked to be a metal cage around his knob.

Taking Hermione's hand, Harry glanced around, both eager and clueless as to where to go next. The people in the hallway were all going various directions, some even stopping to snog up against the walls or just have a little chat with one another. He even spotted a girl just checking her makeup in a little mirror.

Down the way, he saw the familiar faces of Courtney and Ivan walking into a room with two men that looked to be in their twenties. While he wasn't up for sharing Hermione, the couple had been nice enough, so he decided to at least head in that direction to see what was beyond the door.

Peeking inside the room, Harry's mouth slightly fell open.

It was a large circular room, dark—like most of the others—with the exception of a small almost spotlight aimed at the centre of a raised little dais where a curvy woman was tied up in intricate knots, her body bound by soft-looking rope in a design that covered most of her body but revealed everything all at the same time. Both of her hands were bound together but linked behind her back with a hook that looped with a knot tied at the base of her spine.

It wasn't the rope or even the woman that drew Harry's wide-eyed attention though. Nor did it appear to be the focus of everyone else in the room who were mostly all cuddled up in various corners—and positions—watching.

With her arms bound behind her back, put on display for the gathered crowd, the woman was almost casually, as if no one else were even there, sucking the cock of the man facing her.

The man offered endless whispers of praise, holding her hair out of her face so that the audience got a perfect view of the act. Then, every few bobs of her head, he would lift his free hand, bringing down a leather strap against her bare arse, causing her to squeal loudly around his girth.

Looking back around the room, he noticed that Courtney was sitting side-by-side with one of the men she had walked in with, both eagerly watching the show, though she spared him and Hermione a wave. Ivan, however, was quite occupied with the other man they'd stepped into the room with.

Harry gave a subtle wave to Courtney before clearing his throat and chancing a glance at Hermione, who was staring wide-eyed at the display on the dais, her lips slightly parted and her pupils blown wide.

Giving a gentle tug on her hand, Harry looked behind him, leading her to the nearest empty chair and taking a seat. It was large enough that they could have squeezed in next to one another, but Harry pulled her right into his lap instead.

"This okay?" he whispered.

Her breathing was laboured, and he could feel the way she shifted on his lap as if she were trying to keep her cunt from rubbing directly against his leg, but she nodded all the same.

"Okay," she echoed, still riveted by the sight of the couple ahead of them.

Licking his lips, Harry settled his hands on her waist, moving down to her hips.

The bound woman in the centre gagged loudly but was praised with a gentle, "Good girl. Don't stop."

"We can leave if you want," Harry offered, placing his palms on the tops of Hermione's thighs.

"No," she said, not looking back at him, but he could hear the pleading in her tone. "I want to see how it ends."

He almost chuckled at that, but truth be told, he was wondering himself. The man up front didn't look remotely close to being done putting on the show. In fact, his gentle guidance of the woman's head turned a bit rougher, his grip in her hair tighter.

Harry ran a hand up Hermione's back, the other toying with the hem of her skirt, letting the tips of his fingers dance along the skin of her thigh. She shivered in response, her head tilting back slightly as her attention moved in a heartbeat from the display to _him_.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice soft as he felt her thighs shift just slightly apart on his lap.

"Just thinking," Harry replied.

Then with a boldness that he blamed _entirely_ on Sirius's leather jacket, he tucked his fingers beneath her skirt and slowly brought them up her inner thigh until he found the evidence of just _how_ much she was enjoying herself.

Hermione whimpered, and Harry took the opportunity to whisper in her ear, "I was thinking that you're much prettier than this woman." He licked his lips again and shifted his pelvis slightly, allowing her to feel the evidence of his excitement. "And I think you suck cock better than she does."

"Merlin," she breathed out in response, the back of her head full on his shoulder now as she turned her face toward him. It offered him a brilliant view down the front of her, reminding him of the library when they'd revised and he'd made them both mad with wanting.

He tilted her head toward him and kissed her, something soft, sweet, and short but enough to feel the way she panted against his mouth. The fingers of his right hand continued to play with her, circling her clit every few strokes. His right hand snaked around her side, scratching lightly at her ribs before coming up to pluck at one of her piercings.

"Harry," her voice sounded almost hoarse as she broke their kiss, and he could hear the trepidation in her tone, the uncertainty. "Are you sure you want to . . .? " She let her voice trail off as he angled his hand to allow a single finger to slip inside of her. She sucked in a sharp breath.

"When it comes to you," he breathed against her jaw, "I _always_ want to. I almost can't help myself." He plucked at her nipple again. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No." She answered so quickly it made his body shiver in excitement, and then she seemed to melt against him entirely, letting go of any hesitation she had been harbouring and choosing instead to become pliant on his lap.

The man at the centre of the room gave five rapid swats with the leather, and the girl cried out with a shaky moan.

"Maybe I should stop talking," Harry suggested wryly. "Wouldn't want to distract you from the show. You seemed pretty interested."

"Oh please," she begged, one of her hands reaching back behind her to wrap around the back of his neck as she arched her back and he stroked into her once more. "Please don't stop."

With a brief glance around the room, Harry noticed several other couples had all but began to ignore the display in the centre and were, just like he and Hermione, engaging in their own activities.

"Looks like some people are getting bored," Harry said, letting his bottom lip catch on the lobe of her ear. "They'd never ignore _you_ if we were up there." Hermione moaned at the suggestion. "I don't know if I'd be any good at tying knots, but there's nothing that holds _my_ attention more than when I'm in your mouth."

"I could suck you here," she said, her voice low enough for just him and tinged with an eagerness that made his heart thump wildly in his chest. "I'd do it . . . if you told me to."

If he hadn't been fully erect and uncomfortable in his jeans _before_ that, he certainly was now. Just the idea of watching her so dutifully offering such a thing, to put herself on display like that . . . Harry could barely breathe with the rush of affection he felt for her.

Rewarding her with a second finger, Harry kissed the side of her head. "You would, wouldn't you?"

Her response wasn't intelligible, but her long, low moan drew several pairs of eyes briefly before they returned to their own activities.

"Feeling shy?" Harry asked her softly, catching the attention they were drawing. The last thing he wanted was for her to regret anything they did here—or _ever_. So he patiently sought out any sign of hesitation on her part.

She didn't respond for several long moments, but when she did, it was by grinding herself down against his hand and shaking her head. "I like it," she confessed, voice hoarse. "It's like . . . like on the train. It's for you, but the idea of them seeing it . . . seeing what I let you do to me . . . Oh, fuck Harry. It's the best sort of feeling."

Grinning, Harry ran his left hand beneath her shirt to cup and squeeze her breast.

Up front, the man shifted his position and gripped one loop of the ropes instead of the woman's hair. "You're getting sloppy, you filthy little whore."

Harry made a _tsk_ sound. "I'd never call _you_ that," he promised. "But you are a little more . . . naughty than I was led to believe, Miss Granger. Did you want me to finger you in front of Neville back on the train? Did you want him to see _this_?" he asked, rubbing the pad of his thumb slowly against her clit.

She didn't answer him, tilting her hips instead to try and increase the pressure, to get him deeper inside of her. Perhaps she thought it was response enough, but Harry was interested in the answer to his question now.

He pinched her left nipple, flicking the piercing with the tip of his fingernail. "Use your pretty mouth for words, sweetheart. You're not just a body to me."

" _Yes!_ " The word tore from her throat on a low moan.

"Yes, what, Hermione?" Harry asked as he began fingering her in earnest.

"I—Harry, I wanted him to see. Wanted him to watch you fuck me. Wanted him to know you could touch me however you liked, do anything at all to me, and I'd take it. Take anything you give me."

He rubbed his erection against her and groaned. "You take it so _good_ , Hermione. I'd have let him watch if he wanted. Just like I'll let these people watch. But only _I_ can touch you." His emotions built up in his chest, but before he said anything stupid in _this of all fucking places_ , Harry muttered, "Because you're mine, and I'm never letting you go. Do you know that?"

"Yes, Harry. Yours. All yours!" She seemed frantic now, writhing on his lap and so close to coming as she whispered hoarsely that he could feel her beginning to flutter around his fingers.

"I made you a promise on the train," he said, feeling his own breathing increase. "Do you remember?"

"I—" She stopped to pant. "Remember."

"I said that the next time you sat like this on my lap, I would be inside of you."

"Want it. Want you. Only ever you. Please, Harry." She was spreading her thighs again, and twisting around in his lap, trying to reach for the buckle of his belt with wide, lust filled-eyes that shone as she moved.

He pulled both of his hands free of her clothing and quickly began to assist her, yanking at his buckle and pulling at the zip until his cock was freed from the constraints.

"Do you have your wand on you?" he whispered quietly as he cupped her cheek. "Or can you do the charm wandlessly?"

"I don't—I left it at home—"

"Because I plan on coming inside of you right now."

"Fuck, Harry."

He swallowed his desire down—hard. "I can wait."

"NO!" Her shout drew stares, and she looked so panicked he was half tempted to toss her out of his lap until she said, "Please, need you so fucking much."

His brain dizzy with want of her, and the rest of his body in full fucking agreement, Harry kissed her passionately while bunching her skirt up around her hips, helping her to angle her thighs on either side of his. Watching with rapt attention as she poised herself above him and then sank down, he groaned aloud as she took every last inch.

As it always did, being inside of Hermione drowned out the rest of the world. Sure he may have moved his hips sharply to make her shiver or moan, distracting her as he took a fistful of her hair. Sure he was tempted to smack her arse and bite those beautiful breasts of hers, and leave her in an absolute mess—her being unable to walk for several minutes after was preferable.

But as he stared at her, caught up in rapture as she moved above him, giving him more pleasure than he could even dream of, Harry felt a love for her that rivalled anything else in his life.

Her cunt tightened around him, squeezing hard, and Harry brought his mouth to her sternum, kissing his way up to bite at the collar around her neck.

To everyone else in the room, she looked submissive.

But Harry worshipped her.

"I'm going to . . . " Eyes wild, Hermione looked up at him. "Can I?"

She was already there on the edge, he could feel it, feel her fighting off the impending climax as she waited for his word.

He loved her.

"Yes," he said, letting himself go at the same time.

Her body went rigid above him, her hands gripping onto the collar of his jacket tight. Her thighs shook, and he only noticed because that was precisely the moment he felt her body pulse around his cock like a goddamned heartbeat. He felt a cold chill run up his spine then right back down, settling warm in his back as he spilled himself inside of her.

Trying to catch his breath, Harry took hold of the back of her neck and brought her mouth to his, not kissing, barely touching, just sharing in a gasp before pressing their lips together.

_I love you_ , he thought repeatedly as she went lax in his arms. But he didn't say anything other than a soft whisper of, "You're mine, right?"

"Yours," she echoed, nestling her face against his neck.

* * *

"You two looked like you enjoyed yourselves," Courtney said as she approached them from behind, a large group headed toward the exit. Instead of Ivan, who was trailing behind, the other man Harry had seen her in the room with was linked arm-in-arm with her.

He felt a flush of heat rush to his cheeks. "It wasn't bad."

Courtney laughed and squeezed Hermione's shoulder. "I'm glad you guys had fun. Maybe we'll see you again?"

Harry looked at Hermione for an answer, but she was already nodding her head eagerly. "Eventually," she answered with a bright smile, and then looked back up at Harry. "If you're all right with it."

Grinning, Harry kissed her. "I wouldn't deny you a thing, you know," he said as if this whole thing hadn't begun because of him.

Courtney and her little entourage waved goodbye, heading through the exit just as Harry stopped and knelt down to tie one of his shoes.

"That was intense," another girl said with an exhausted—but pleased—tone.

Glancing up, Harry recognised her face. The girl from the room with the "wand".

"Well, your first time on display like that can be a little much," her friend was saying. "Did you feel like you needed to use it?"

The girl blinked. "My safe word? I worried I might need to, but it was all great in the end."

Harry stood up after tying his shoe and secured an arm around Hermione's shoulders as they headed for the door.

"Hey, what do you suppose a safe word is?"

Hermione shrugged, looking unconcerned. "Dunno," she admitted, looking sleepy now as she leant into him and glanced up to meet his gaze. "We'll look into it. Later." She yawned. "Possibly a lot later."

Harry chuckled and kissed the top of her head.


	18. Chapter 18

The Common Room was alive with merriment and a healthy dose of anxiety. Hermione knew for a fact that she was responsible for at least ninety-five percent of the latter, and it wasn't the start of term that had her on edge.

No, _classes_ she was prepared for. She'd checked and double-checked her time table for class and revisions. She'd _triple_ checked the scheduled N.E.W.T. preparation sessions she'd set up with a pair of Ravenclaws. All of the homework she'd managed to complete during holidays—which had been a very near thing—was stacked neatly on her bedside table. No, _school_ she had sorted.

It was the little red circle she'd inked around the date for the upcoming Wednesday that had her on edge.

She should really have learnt to cast the stupid contraceptive charm wandlessly sooner.

Pressing her lips together tightly, she forced herself to look up from the page. There was nothing for it now. Her cycle was due in just a few days, and she'd know then whether her negligence would have any lasting impact or if it would just remain an incredibly hot moment of irresponsibility.

"How are your revision schedules looking?" she asked, looking across the coffee table to where Ron and Lavender sat hand in hand. She'd bet her left shoe the two of _them_ used protection consistently.

"Looking good," Lavender said, smiling up at her and then over at Ron. "Our time table's mostly the same—except for Divination and Potions."

Ron leant in, dropping a small kiss on the tip of Lavender's nose.

Hermione looked over to Harry. "What about you? A lot of my sessions are solo this term. Have you got yourself squared away?"

Having been staring awkwardly at Ron and Lavender, Harry blinked a few times and caught Hermione's stare. "What? Oh, I'm all set," he said and then subtly gestured at their friends with a ' _Seriously?_ ' expression on his face, looking like he was on the verge of laughing.

Hermione gave him a stern look, but she knew she couldn't hide the upward tilt at the corner of her mouth completely.

"You sure?" she asked instead, because the only thing keeping her from looking back down at her own planner with the stupid red circle now, was worrying about Harry's.

His brow furrowed for a moment and then, obviously misunderstanding her, he grinned and looked down at the planner that wasn't even open on the correct month. "Oh, well, I guess I could use a little help . . . later. If you'd be open to it."

"I could help now," she said.

Why couldn't he just let her plan his stupid revision schedule? The thought of it was the only thing keeping her from worrying about a parasite growing in her midriff at the moment, and she _needed_ this distraction.

Raising his eyebrows, Harry smiled and closed his planner entirely.

"Right then," he said and then gestured to the door that led down the corridors to the private rooms. "Shall we, Miss Granger?"

"You guys aren't even _slightly_ subtle," Ron muttered, not even looking up at them.

"I think they're very sweet," Lavender chimed in with a happy smile that was slightly obscured by her hair hanging in her face. Ron gently tried to brush it away, but she looked down, her cheeks turning pink as she side-eyed him with a sparkle in her gaze. "I'm just saying . . . I know what that feels like."

Biting her lip now as she realised just what she'd managed to get herself into, Hermione swallowed.

"Right," she said, closing her own planner and tucking it into her bag with her quill and then swinging the thing up onto her shoulder. "Let's go." She glanced at Ron, who was rolling his eyes now. "To work on our _schedules_ ," she added for his benefit.

She followed Harry into the eighth year corridor after that, the sounds of Ron's fake gagging and Lavender's quiet chuckles following her out.

"Well, that was embarrassing," she said, and she paused at her bedroom door. "My room okay?"

Harry's smile vanished rapidly at her tone. "Is everything . . .?" he trailed off, placing a hand on her shoulder that she didn't immediately lean into, which caused him to backtrack a moment and stop touching her. "Uh, sure. That's fine."

The change in him made her feel momentarily guilty, but then she remembered that the _reason_ she was currently stressing at maximum levels was half to do with him, and she forgave herself.

"Fine," she said, opening her door and walking in. She dropped her bag on the little desk by the wall, fishing out her planner again and splaying it open on the surface without looking behind her. Despite her mood, she was relieved to hear the door close and Harry follow her in.

"So, I was thinking maybe—"

Her eyes focused on that ridiculous bit of ink again, and she lost her train of thought.

"Umm."

She suddenly heard Harry's bag drop to the floor and his arms swiftly encircled her from behind.

He gently leant his chin on her shoulder. "I'm sorry. I know how much classes stress you out, and with N.E.W.T.s coming up, I shouldn't have been teasing."

"What?" She felt some of the tension melt away as he embraced her, and in another few moments, she registered his words. "Oh. No, I'm fine. Really. Classes are just . . . they'll be fine." She sighed, glancing back down at the planner and swallowing hard.

"What about _you_ though?" She turned in the circle of his arms. "Are you sure there isn't anything I can help with? I could really use something to focus on."

Harry pressed a kiss to her forehead and then let her go, bending down to retrieve his planner from his bag.

"Honestly, I think I'm doing pretty well. Back in McGonagall's good graces, thanks to you," he said with a little wink as he opened the planner. "Professor Barebone says that I'm doing great in Defence this year. Haven't had these good of marks since Remus taught us. Slughorn's a bit of a pill since I don't have Snape's book anymore or the Slug Club to ride on," he added with a frown and a roll of his eyes. "So, if you're wanting to focus on something, I could always use a little help there."

Smiling, Hermione nodded. "Perfect. Potions is all practice, and I can add some more in."

She turned, plucking Harry's planner from him and turning again to set it down side-by-side with hers. She compared the two, trying to find blank spaces that correlated. It proved to be more difficult than she'd anticipated.

"Hang on a minute," she said. "I think there's a spot on Wednesdays that—" Fuck. _Wednesday_. Fucking bloody Wednesday. "That I . . . umm. Might have free." She forced herself to scroll down the times underneath the date.

Harry glanced down, clearly noticing the red circle. "Big date?"

"Umm . . ." Was there a fly in the room? She could swear she heard buzzing. "No. Not particularly."

He chuckled and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, his eyes full of earnest . . . something . . . something a little scary, if she were being honest.

"Hey, I'm fully aware that I'm completely monopolising the schedule of the most eligible witch at Hogwarts, so you can't blame me for assuming that someone else bucked up the courage, can you?"

Stricken, her eyes widened and her heart began to race in her chest. "What? Harry, you can't actually think I had plans with some other— I mean . . . I know we aren't . . . well, you know. But we're _exclusive._ "

Weren't they? Oh shit. Shit shit shit.

Here she was worried about a ridiculous red circle and everything it might mean, and he thought she was making plans to go with other men? How could she have ever been so stupid?

His smile dropped so quick that she barely missed it.

"God, Hermione, I was only joking. I mean, not about you being the most—but of course we're exclusive. You're it for me . . . I mean. Well, you know . . ." He stumbled over a few more words that came out completely incoherent before he just let out a frustrated exhale and kissed her instead. Just as his lips met hers, his fingers traced over her jaw and down her neck, lightly fingering the chain of the key necklace she had resumed wearing once she'd taken the collar off after visiting Limitation.

The touch calmed her; it quieted the buzzing she knew now was only in her head. It quieted the panic and the worry and all of the possibilities that had been swirling through her mind like mayflies.

She leant into the kiss, breaking it only when she needed breath again, and letting out a single, shuddering sigh.

"Sorry," she apologised, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. "I guess start of term is just getting to me."

He leant his cheek on top of her head. "I promise I'll stop teasing you. Until you _want_ me to," he added with a chuckle that rumbled in his chest. One hand came up and lovingly stroked her hair. "As an added bonus for being a bellend, I'll even let you take over my planner."

The promise cheered her considerably, and she grinned.

Hermione went straight to work, reorganising his entire time table to better align in with hers and allow some free time for the both of them that actually overlapped. It took her all of twenty minutes, and when she was done, she gave a satisfied smile and handed it back to him.

"There. We've got Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays off together, from three to five. Then Saturdays after four and Sundays before noon."

"Is this outside of revising?" Harry asked sceptically.

"Yes," she confirmed, happy to have managed to surprise him. She really was something of a whiz with planning.

Grinning once again, Harry cheerfully snatched her quill from her hand. "In that case," he said and bent forward over her shoulder so that she was pinned with her back to his chest as he wrote in her planner. "I hereby reserve a date with you every Saturday night."

She blushed, and after everything they had done together, all the things she had _felt_ with him, it surprised her that she still could.

"What, no other witches clamouring for your time?" she teased.

And though she was certain she knew the answer, she still wanted to hear his response.

No, she needed to hear it.

"None as perfect as you," he whispered with a kiss just behind her ear. "Or as delicious."

"Mmm. More of that," she demanded, leaning into his touch and tilting her neck for him.

"Are you asking me to tease you then, Miss Granger?" he asked quietly, his breath hot on her neck as he pulled her hair to her opposite shoulder before placing a kiss to the top of her spine.

"God yes." She wasn't sure why she hadn't thought of this earlier. Why had the planners been the thing she'd chosen to focus on in her moment of anxiety when _this_ was always so much more effective a method of stress-relief?

Harry groaned a little, rubbing his beard against her shoulder and sending shivers down her body. His hand continued to move on the planner, even as he placed open-mouthed kisses along her skin.

On the paper, in the first slot allocated for Sundays was written: _Spanking_.

"Jesus, Harry."

"Don't worry, I'll put something in here for me too. I'm all about self-care," he said and then immediately wrote ' _Suck Harry's Cock_ ' on the four o'clock slot on Wednesdays.

She moaned. It had been a while since he'd let her do that. Since the day after the club at least.

The club. Where she'd come on his cock in front of a room full of patrons and he'd reciprocated. Unprotected.

She turned in his arms, burying her face against his chest again and putting her arms around his middle, squeezing so tightly she could feel her muscles straining.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?" he said, nuzzling the top of her head. "Requests of your own?"

"Can we . . .? Can you sleep here tonight?"

She could almost hear the smile in his voice when he replied, "I didn't realise just how much I loved waking up next to you until we came back to school. How about we reserve the _weekends_ for sleeping together?" he suggested wryly. "Less likely to get caught."

She tried to keep from reacting, from showing any level of disappointment. She would be fine. Just fine. Just two more days of stress and then she was sure there would be nothing to worry about.

"Okay," she agreed. "Weekends it is."

* * *

With a spring in his step, Harry made his way down to breakfast the following morning. He'd woken early after a night of restful sleep and pleasant dreams filled with memories of his Christmas spent with Hermione. Apart from the one he'd been able to spend with Sirius and the few little moments with the Weasleys growing up, he couldn't remember having had such a good holiday. That good mood followed him all the way back to Hogwarts.

Hermione however . . .

Harry had wanted to walk her down to the Great Hall for breakfast, but she'd already been gone by the time he had left the showers and dressed for the day. While he arrived at the Gryffindor table with a pep in his step, _she_ almost looked distraught.

She had been a bit off lately, and his immediate concern was that she had begun over-thinking about their adventure to Limitation while still in London. But that _couldn't_ have been it. Harry was certain. She had been surprisingly relaxed once they'd gone home to Grimmauld Place that night and had even made flirtatious comments about her desire to maybe eventually go back once school was over, though she _did_ get a little hesitant when he'd tried firming up those plans.

No. If he thought hard enough, Hermione hadn't begun acting strangely until they'd returned to Hogwarts and she began digging into her planner. It _had_ to be her concerns over their upcoming N.E.W.T.s. There just didn't seem to be any other logical conclusion, and Hermione _was_ still Hermione, after all.

Approaching her from behind, Harry smiled and placed his hands on her shoulders, giving them a light squeeze and frowning at the tension he felt.

"You know," he began in a quiet tone so that no one else could hear, "I'm liable to start punishing you if you don't stop worrying so much."

It wasn't so much her reaction to his words that struck him, but her lack of it. She nodded mildly, glancing over her shoulder at him and giving him a tired, pinched-looking smile as she said "Good morning," and then she turned back to her plate.

Blinking a little at her, Harry glanced up at Ron who sat opposite Hermione, Lavender at his side quickly filling up both of their plates while animatedly talking to Seamus. Harry tried to silently communicate with his friend once they'd made eye contact, and he gestured down at Hermione with a raised brow.

Ron looked at Harry and then back to Hermione and then let out a quiet snort before returning his attention once more as if to say, _"I didn't know how to deal with her_ before _you started dating. This is all on you, mate."_

Harry narrowed his eyes.

Ron stifled a quiet laugh beneath his hand and then, when it drew Hermione and Lavender's attentions, he coughed into his palm and offered them both a bright smile.

"What's so funny?" Hermione asked irritably, and she sounded far more like his third year, bushy-haired _friend_ Hermione than the Hermione he'd spent hours making come just days ago.

"Coughing," Ron replied immediately and reached for his glass, only to realise too late that Lavender had snatched it up to refill his pumpkin juice. His hand moved around in the empty space for a moment, before he awkwardly made a fist and knocked on the wood of the table, looking nervous under Hermione's glance.

"Right," said Hermione, drawing out the word as Harry sank down into the seat at her right. He watched her closely until she slid her attention briefly to him, at which point he averted his gaze and looked as Lavender placed Ron's juice back on the table with a sweet little smile.

Idea!

"Thirsty?" Harry offered, reaching for Hermione's glass.

There was that damned stiffness in her spine again.

"No," she said. "Actually, I'm not very hungry either." And then she looked at him with that smile that didn't reach her eyes as she pushed her plate away. "Think I'll go read for a bit in the library before class. See you later?"

Harry realised that, like Ron moments earlier, his hand was now just hanging in the air above the table. "Oh," he said and pulled it back to his own glass. "Do you want company?"

Her already forced smile dropped just slightly at the corners, not enough that anyone else would notice, but Harry had become very familiar with her smile the past few months, and he could tell.

"Umm. You stay. Wouldn't want you to have to miss breakfast because I'm a bookworm." And then she stood, leaning down and giving him a quick peck on the forehead before she lifted her bag over her shoulder and was off.

Harry watched her go, feeling more at a loss now than he'd ever felt taking an exam. Just as Hermione vanished from sight, Ginny plopped down on his right, reaching over him to grab a pastry from the centre of the table.

"Ouch," she said before taking a bite. "Forehead kiss. I guess the honeymoon's over."

Narrowing his eyes, Harry grabbed the pastry right out of her hand as she went to take another mouthful—a dangerous and even stupid action considering Ginny was likely to bite him, but he was a reckless Gryffindor if there ever was one.

"She's just worried about classes," he said, biting the other side of the pastry before tossing it back at Ginny, who just laughed at him.

"She's always worried about classes," Ginny said.

"Merlin," Ron groaned, his face turning a bit green. "You don't think it'll be as bad as it was with her O.W.L.s, do you?"

Lavender let out a little sigh, resting her elbow on the table and then her chin in her palm.

"I hope not," she said, plucking a piece of bacon from Ron's plate and nibbling on the end. "I know you boys dealt with her more often, but I shared a room with her for six years. She might have seemed only stressed in the library, but Parvati and I used to catch her actually pulling her hair out in small chunks while she revised up in our room."

Harry's eyes widened, though he wasn't entirely surprised by the revelation. He shook his head and looked down at his own empty plate, still hungry but feeling too guilty to want to eat.

"Do you think I should do something?"

When no one answered him, he looked up. Ron and Lavender appeared a little concerned and maybe pitied him a little. Ginny, however, smacked him in the head.

"Ow, fuck!"

"You're such a twat," she muttered, grabbing another two pastries before getting up and leaving the table.

Giving Lavender, the only other witch at the table, a pleading look, Harry begged, "What should I do? As her best friend, it was one thing to worry about her, but right now . . . I'm a little lost. You know what my history with girlfriends is like," he said, casting a glare in the direction that Ginny had gone. "I'm a bit out of my depth here."

Lavender shrugged, not unkindly, and glanced up at Ron who was studiously avoiding both of their gazes, then back to Harry.

"All _I_ ever want when I feel bad is someone to notice and hold me till I feel better," she said after another moment. "Maybe just talk to her and find out what it is _she_ wants?"

It looked like it took him a few moments to register her words, but Ron smiled just as the lightbulb went off and grabbed Lavender's hand with a bright smile.

She chuckled at him good-naturedly and kissed his cheek. "I'm feeling fine _now_ , but thank you."

Harry sighed as he watched their interaction, but nodded to Lavender. "Thanks. I've tried a bit, but you know she's not always the most open person about things that bother her. Do you . . .?" He stopped and then furrowed his brow. "I mean . . . I don't mean to be indelicate, but—" he lowered his voice to a whisper and leant forward. "—could it be a, y'know, a . . . _woman_ thing?"

Lavender's piteous look turned to one of incredulity, and she let go of Ron's hand, placing her own on the table to assist in standing up. "I'll tell you what, Harry. Why don't I go and check on her _for_ you? Woman to woman."

It felt like a trap. It sounded sarcastic.

But Harry was desperate.

"Please?"

Her expression softened the slightest bit, but she looked no less unimpressed with Harry as she ruffled Ron's hair affectionately before giving his shoulder a squeeze. "You owe me," she said with a little smile, tucking the hair on the unscarred side of her face behind her ear. "I'll see you in Charms, love."

"Save me a seat," Ron replied with a grin, trying to hide that he still had food in his mouth.

Determined to eat something, Harry grabbed a single piece of toast but felt too defeated in the moment to even butter it. "I'll never understand witches."

"Mate, you are in good company," Ron said emphatically before swallowing another bite of his breakfast.

Harry poked his toast with a finger and then leant on his other hand. "So, you and Lavender official now?"

Ron's ears reddened but he grinned as he nodded. "Last night. She told me she wasn't interested in me if I was gonna—well, I wasn't exactly a gentleman last time we dated. So I told _her_ I knew I'd been a jerk, but that if she'd let me, I'd be a prince this time." He made a face, as if unimpressed with his own words. "Not my best, really, but I meant it, and she's been taking extra lessons from Trelawney, so she had a feeling about it and now she's my girlfriend again."

Happy for his friend, Harry smiled. "Well, at least with her taking extra Divination, she'll be able to predict it this time before you screw up," he offered with a chuckle.

"Oi!"

Sighing, Harry gave up on his toast and just filled his glass with juice. "Wish _I_ had a little future prediction when it came to Hermione right now."

Ron, who seemed by no means done with _his_ breakfast, took another bite and then swallowed it down so fast Harry wasn't sure he'd actually had time to chew it. "She'll be fine. You'll get her sorted soon."

Harry gave him half a smile in reply before saying, "Sorry. I don't know if this is weird for you. We've both had girls before, but with the war and everything . . . and one of those girls being Ginny," he conceded, "we've never really . . . talked about this. Relationships and stuff. And it's _Hermione_."

Ron nodded a little, but then his ears turned red once more, a tell-tale sign if there ever was one. "Yeah, no, we've never . . . Because Ginny and y'know . . . war." He cleared his throat and then looked around conspiratorially before leaning across the table. "So umm . . . Can I . . .? I mean to say . . ." He blinked rapidly, his lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at Harry.

"Yes?" Harry asked warily.

Clearing his throat again—and reminding Harry a little bit of Mr Weasley in the process, Ron quietly blurted out, "I need to ask about you and Hermione having sex."

Eyes instantly wide, Harry gaped at his friend. "What?"

Ron looked embarrassed with a pleading expression. "You know I can't exactly write to my brothers about this stuff. They'd all take the piss, and who knows if they'd actually write back honestly. For all I know, George might give me advice that'll have Lavender magically shrivelling up my knob."

The imagery made Harry want to both laugh and cringe at the same time. "Okay, fair, you want advice I guess?" Ron nodded. "But why do you need to know about what _Hermione and I_ do?"

The idea of confessing his darker side to Ron of all people made Harry want to Polyjuice into someone else instantly. Either one of two things would happen if Ron were to ever learn the truth: he'd punch Harry in the face or he'd Obliviate himself.

"Well," Ron muttered, the colour of his face quickly catching up with his ears. "I need to know what's . . . normal."

"Normal?"

"Like . . . average."

Harry raised a brow. "Average?"

Stammering a bit in frustration, Ron huffed, "Are you just going to repeat everything I say?"

Harry held up his hands figuring that he could always just lie. "By all means, let me help?"

"Well," Ron began, pausing only when a pair of sixth year girls walked behind him and starting again once they were out of hearing range. "After she took pity on me and said I could be her boyfriend again, Lavender and me, well, y'know."

Harry had vivid memories of Ron and Lavender snogging in the Common Room from sixth year. His friend had never exactly been shy about kissing the girl before. "You two . . .?"

Ron shrugged a little. "I mean not totally," he muttered. "She's just—" He held up his hands in front of him and made a few gestures with them, none of which Harry actually understood. "She got a little . . . handsy."

"Oh!" Harry replied. "Umm . . . that's great, mate."

Ron winced. "Okay but like, she did a few things like that last time we dated, but this time she's very—" He opened his mouth, looking as though someone had either hit him with a Confundus Charm or a Silencing Charm. Maybe both.

Sighing in his own frustration, Harry rubbed his temples. "Out with it."

Ron swallowed hard. "She's very . . . strong? And . . . excitable? And . . . kinda—"

"Kinda what?" Harry asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

"Mean?"

That had been unexpected. "Mean? She's mean when you're . . .?"

"Not mean," Ron hastily corrected himself. "Because I don't _like_ mean. But I liked _that_. I liked her when she was, y'know, a little . . ."

And then he looked around to make sure no one was paying them any attention before doing the strangest and most awkward growl that Harry had ever heard in his life. He was pretty sure that Crookshanks had sounded more ferocious.

Harry stared at his friend. He tried not to. Honest to God, he tried.

"Grr," Ron said again. "Y'know. Grr."

Putting his face in his hands, Harry focused on his breathing. Ron was right. Any of the Weasley brothers would ruin him over this. Hell, _Ginny_ would never let him live it down.

"Okay, so do you _like_ it when Lavender is—"

"Grr," Ron said again. "And yes."

"Jesus Christ," Harry muttered, trying to gain some semblance of composure before looking back up at his friend. "Right. That. But you _like_ it?"

"Oh yeah," Ron said, nodding enthusiastically. "But I mean, are _all_ girls . . .? Or maybe is it just the, y'know, wolf thing. I'd ask Bill, but I . . . I don't want to."

Remembering everything he'd stumbled across in Sirius's journals about Remus, Harry realised what Ron was _trying_ to ask. It was the same thing he'd asked Hermione not even two weeks ago when they'd arrived at Grimmauld Place and Harry'd found out about his godfather and former professor. Ron wanted to know if there was something _wrong_ with Lavender because she'd been infected by a werewolf. Because she'd been marked by Dark Magic.

He resisted the urge to touch his forehead, a habit he'd formed long ago from a reaction to even thinking about Dark Magic. He realised in that moment that he couldn't very well lie to his best friend. He also couldn't let on what he knew about Remus, because that would only cement any worries Ron was having about his girlfriend.

Before he had the chance to say anything though, Ron asked, "Is _Hermione_ like that?"

"No!" Harry blurted out on instinct and then recoiled at his own volume. "I mean . . . no, she's not like that."

Frowning and looking more concerned than ever, Ron said, "Oh."

Sighing, Harry sucked in a breath. "But umm . . . _I_ am."

"Oh!" Ron's eyebrows shot up somewhere near his hairline.

"You know you can't say a thing about this to Hermione," Harry warned him, and Ron's eyes seemed to bulge out of their sockets at just the thought. "I'm only telling you because . . . you're my best friend, and I don't want you and Lavender to have issues thinking that there's something wrong with her."

"No, I— I mean, I'm glad you _did_ tell me. I just— well I worried. But if _you're_ . . . erm . . ." Ron's brows furrowed this time, but the crimson hue at his ears seemed to be fading.

"I swear to Merlin, if you growl at me again," Harry threatened. "Just—Lavender is normal. It's fine. Healthy even. Lots of people do . . . that. As long as it's consensual."

"Like if I like it?" Ron asked, and Harry nodded. "Well, that's not a problem then." He grinned this time, and he got a faraway gaze in his eyes before blinking and looking back down at his plate, shimmying in his seat a little smugly. "I like it just fine."

Harry laughed in relief and almost wanted to say that Hermione liked it too.

But he wasn't so sure right then.

"Besides," Ron continued, looking considerably cheered, "It's not as if she's paddling my arse or anything like that."

Blinking and feeling the back of his neck grow warm, Harry asked, "Would you care if she _did_?"

The question seemed to take Ron by surprise. He took another bite of his food and chewed it for far longer than he normally did and then, as he swallowed, he smiled sheepishly.

"No, don't suppose I would," he admitted.

Harry laughed again, feeling a bit more at ease and strangely more normal than he had in a long while. It was one thing for Hermione to admit that his desires were fine, and to see all those Muggles at Limitation, but to hear _Ron_ admit such a thing was like someone had finally sealed a lid on his ever-present concerns.

"Wait," Ron said as something occurred to him. "How d'you know that _other_ people are like that? That it's not just you and Lav?"

"Met some Muggles," Harry said, keeping it short and sweet.

"Oh," Ron said with a nod but didn't look entirely convinced.

Harry took it as a good enough sign that the conversation could end there, and he stood up, finishing off his glass of juice and taking a single bite of his piece of toast before shouldering his bookbag.

"Wait!" Ron said, eyes suddenly wide. "Did you do anything like that with my _sister_?!"

Without even blinking, Harry swallowed his toast and then shook his head.

"Nope. Never did. Ginny's a virgin, I'm pretty sure," he said speedily before practically sprinting out of the Great Hall.


	19. Chapter 19

Lavender had been trying to speak with her since the first day of classes, and Hermione had been avoiding her like the Dragon Pox. It wasn't that she didn't _like_ Lavender; she'd spent enough time living with her to know that she was more than just a pretty face . . . but Hermione had the sneaking suspicion that the girl had been asked to check in on her, and the last thing she wanted was for Harry to find out how worried she was. How would she explain it?

_Sorry, Harry, I think I might be pregnant. Welcome to a whole lot of adult feelings you're unprepared for and don't deserve to have thrust upon you. I know our entire relationship is based on my providing an outlet for you when you're stressed, but I've heard babies are absolute angels and never cause any stress at all. Surprise!_

Yes, that would go swimmingly.

She'd thought it better to wait it out, to watch the calendar and when she _knew_ there was nothing to feel anxious about, she could go back to her normal self. She would put aside all of the worries she'd started carrying around like a lodestone about her neck, and she would flirt with him again. She'd be able to look at him without thinking she might have stolen his future. She'd be able to feel his hands on her without remembering that she had been the fool who hadn't practised the charm wandlessly . . . the one who hadn't been willing to wait.

So she'd spent her time perfecting the contraceptive charm. She'd practised so often she was sure she could cast it not _only_ wandlessly but wordlessly. Not that it mattered.

Because today was Thursday.

Yesterday she had worn her things because she had just _known_ that her period would come. She'd always been regular before the war—had even been able to track her cycle down to the hour sometimes. Then, when they'd been on the run and she'd barely been eating . . . well, her body hadn't liked that . . . but it had been more than half a year since then, and she'd been on time _last_ month.

But today was Thursday.

And she was sitting in the girl's bathroom on the seventh floor, sobbing like a firstie and waiting. Because there wasn't another option. It was wait with her knickers around her ankles, _willing_ herself to bleed, or admit to herself that today was Thursday and she was late and probably completely fucked.

"Hermione?"

Oh fuck.

She bit her bottom lip, stifling the sound of her crying and squeezing her eyes shut tight.

"Hermione, I know you're in there," Lavender said with a kind voice.

"It's not Hermione," she lied, sounding just as miserable as she felt.

From beyond the door, there was a soft chuckle.

"Yeah, okay, even if you _didn't_ sound exactly like Hermione, the full moon was a week ago, and after living with you for six years, I could smell your particular brand of shampoo even if I weren't all . . . Grr." She paused. "Well, _kind_ of Grr."

Double fuck.

"I don't really want to talk," Hermione tried, but the words came out between gasping breaths, and soon she had to bite her knuckle to keep from sobbing aloud.

Lavender sighed. "Well, that makes sense. Your friends have always been boys. They're good for a laugh and all but hardly the type to get deep when it comes to certain conversations. But I'm pretty sure if you don't talk to someone, Harry's going to have a stroke."

Harry. He'd have a stroke all right. Probably a heart attack too if her period had gone on a nine-month walkabout.

"And I'm happy to listen," Lavender added, her tone shifting slightly. She'd always been bubbly and energetic, but her voice was subdued a bit, sombre even. She'd kept a few friendships, of course, but her self esteem had clearly taken a nosedive after being attacked by Greyback. It sounded as though maybe _she_ could use someone to talk to as well.

Hell.

Drawing up her knickers and then sitting down again on the closed toilet seat lid, Hermione tried to dry her tears. She didn't do a very good job, mostly because more kept coming, but she focused on breathing steadily as Lavender waited outside the stall, and in another minute or two she felt less like the world was in immediate danger of ending and more like she could form words without bursting into noisy sobs.

"I—" She choked on the words. Dammit, she was trying here. Angrily, she pulled at the toilet paper roll until she had a great big wad in her hands and then dabbed at her tears.

"Come out," Lavender pleaded. "I know what bad crying sounds like, and you need some cold water on your face or it'll get puffy. I know you don't care about your image or whatever, but trust me when I tell you that crying _that_ hard actually hurts when your face swells up really bad."

"I've been having a bad week," Hermione confessed at last, and even that seemed like too much, but Lavender was right about one thing at least: her face already hurt. She stood up, trying to convince herself that opening the door was a good idea. She'd already given up on forcing her period through sheer strength of will, so there was nothing left for her here in the stall.

"Hermione, all things considered, you've had a pretty bad _decade_ ," Lavender said with a sad little sympathetic laugh. "But you helped kill the darkest wizard in the world. That should count for a little something to brighten your life."

Hermione opened the door, keeping her eyes trained downward toward her shoes as she stepped out, tears still on her cheeks and leaking out of her traitorous eyes as she clenched her fists tight.

"Yeah, well, You-Know-Who is the _least_ of my problems these days."

The words were so true they were almost comical. Who gave a shit about a Dark Lord when their parents were gone forever and they'd probably fucked up the future of the person they loved most in the world?

Without an invitation, Lavender stuck her own wand in her mouth and then took Hermione's face in her hands, gently using her thumbs to wipe the tears from beneath her eyes.

"Lucky you don't—" she began to mumble, but then took the wand out of her mouth. "Lucky you don't wear eye makeup."

She waved her wand at Hermione, wordlessly casting a Cooling Charm on her face that took effect immediately, soothing her skin and helping to ease the swelling that had already begun.

"Well, hell," Lavender said with a put upon sigh as she smiled. "Still pretty."

Hermione couldn't help the gasping little laugh that bubbled up at that any more than she could help the fresh wave of tears that spilt down her face, running over her chin and down her neck.

"I'm—" She swallowed, drying her neck with the back of her hands and her face with the palms as she forced out the words on a whisper. "I'm late."

Lavender said nothing for half a minute.

Were it either of the boys, Hermione would have had to explain further and outright say the words, but eventually, the other witch stuck her wand in its holster and then wrapped her arms around Hermione as though they had been close friends during their duration at Hogwarts instead of reluctant roommates.

This, of course, only made Hermione cry harder.

Eventually, when the sobs had quieted, Lavender asked, "How late?"

"J-just a day," Hermione explained, feeling silly as she said it, feeling as if her head might pound right off of her shoulders too. "But I've always been very regular and—and we—well, I was stupid at a bad time."

Pulling back, Lavender glared at her. "Oh, I'm sorry, are you the only one in charge of contraception? Harry's a grown-ass man."

"He—" Lavender had it all wrong, and the protective instinct inside of Hermione that had always risen when Harry was under attack reared its head. "Harry was willing to wait. He said he could wait, but I . . . _I_ didn't want to."

"And you overpowered him?" Lavender asked sarcastically with a raised brow. "The great Harry Potter was incapable of saying no?"

"No! I mean . . . But he was hardly in his right mind. He was ready to—" She felt her cheeks heat despite the tears.

Lavender pursed her lips in a challenge and rolled her eyes. "Oh Merlin, I'm sorry, but you are absolutely ridiculous. What would you say to any other witch if she were in this bathroom right now crying? Hermione, just because he's Harry Potter and he's your boyfriend does not mean that he's perfect. Sex is _his_ responsibility too."

Her first instinct was to say no, to _protect_ Harry, but as the question Lavender had asked sank in, and she allowed herself to really think about it . . . she was right. If their positions were reversed, if _Ron_ were the one with _Lavender_ in that club, Hermione would tell her she was being daft, that Ron could have controlled himself . . . that it was a _mutual_ choice not to wait.

"I'm guessing you haven't told him, because otherwise he wouldn't think that you were upset about _N.E.W.T.s_ ," Lavender said, her tone softening again as she helped to push Hermione's hair back behind her ears.

"No!" Hermione shook her head so violently it swam. "No, I don't want him to know. Lavender, you have to promise me you're not going to say anything to him. Not to Ron, either! We're only temporary, you see, we're not—I'm not it for him."

"Of course not," Lavender said, looking mildly affronted. "It's not really their business anyway since it's your body—Wait, what do you mean _temporary_?"

Fuck. Hearing it from Lavender somehow made it worse. Hermione had always known that this thing between her and Harry wasn't supposed to last, but at the word, she felt her throat swell anew—felt her eyes stinging.

"I mean we're not really . . . We're _friends_ ," she said lamely. "I love him but . . . he's not ready for anything more. _I'm_ not ready for more. And we just, well, we're intimate . . . but we're friends. And I don't want to— the last thing Harry needs is a—" She looked down at her flat stomach and swallowed. "He doesn't deserve that when we were only ever friends."

Lavender let a long while pass between them without saying anything. She looked concerned, that was certain. She fidgeted a moment, even going so far as to tuck her own hair behind her ear only to realise that she'd done it on the wrong side and accidentally revealed her scars. She quickly corrected her mistake.

After what felt like several minutes of silence, the blonde quietly asked, "Does _Harry_ know that?"

_Did_ he know? _Of course_ he knew. They'd agreed to it, in the beginning, over breakfast in the Great Hall. _Hadn't_ they? And even if they hadn't, Harry would never look at _her_ and see what he needed for a lifetime. She didn't have that to give, though sometimes she wished desperately that she did.

"I think—Yes. Yes, he knows." He _had_ to know.

Lavender sighed dramatically, sounding a bit more like the girl Hermione had known years earlier. "Whatever. He's a boy and probably clueless anyway. But explain to me that part where Harry doesn't deserve 'that'. Do you mean a _baby_ that or a _you_ that?"

And then she gave her a challenging look—complete with a slender raised brow—as though she could read minds. Hermione half wondered if she _could_.

"Both," she admitted, after another sniffle. "He's lost so much, Lavender. He deserves the best, and a pregnant best friend at the age of nineteen is not that."

"Well, the baby thing I get," Lavender admitted. "And not the whole deserving thing, but right now I think it would just suck for the _both_ of you. Bad timing. But if you're seriously trying to tell me that Harry bloody Potter doesn't deserve to live happily ever after with Hermione fucking Granger, then I think I must have hit my head during the war because this is all—" she gestured with wild hands "—backwards crazy."

Growing frustrated now, Hermione wiped at her tears again and moved past Lavender to stand at one of the sinks, avoiding her gaze in the mirror and turning on the tap to run some cool water.

"You don't understand," she said when she thought she could speak without sounding rude. "I'm not—" _whole_ , she thought "—the same anymore. Not since the war."

At that, Lavender took a deep, shaky breath and then very purposely tucked her hair behind her ear, revealing the depth of her scars for Hermione to see as she glanced up into the mirror.

They were still dark, unlike some of the ones she remembered on Remus's face. It had only been months, of course, since the final battle, and the deep wounds in Lavender's skin from Greyback were purple, the skin pulled tight. They looked painful. Part of her eye had been scratched, and the girl's normally bright blue eyes no longer matched as one was paler than the other now, with what looked like a strange little crack of gold splitting from the side into the centre.

"I'm sorry," said Hermione, regretting her words at once. She _always_ had the words, but here, with a pounding head and cheeks rubbed raw with salt and sweat . . . She didn't think she could even begin to explain properly. "I didn't mean—" She forced a tight smile. "I'm stupid right now, all right?"

"You're _emotional_ right now," Lavender corrected, setting her hair back down in front of her face. "And rightly so. I don't know a witch our age who wouldn't be. But Merlin, Hermione, please take this as the kind advice that I intend it to be: you need to talk to someone about whatever it was that happened to you during the war." She inhaled slowly and breathed out the words, "We probably _all_ do."

The words rattled through Hermione's head once Lavender had spoken them, ricocheting off all of the shattered, painful pieces in her mind, reminding her of exactly why she _didn't_ want to talk to anyone about them. They hurt too much.

"Maybe," she said because she didn't want to disappoint her friend.

"You know what they say," Lavender sighed. "An unchecked cauldron always boils over." She blinked. "Or something like that. My mum says it. I don't really get it, but it feels like it makes sense."

"It does," said Hermione.

"You feel any better?" Lavender tentatively asked.

Another tight smile. "A little. Just . . . I don't think I'll be able to settle until it starts . . . or I know." And then another thought occurred to her. "Lavender, do you know if there's a charm to—well, to check? For a . . . fetus." It was the only word she could bring herself to say aloud at this point. 'Baby' and 'pregnancy' both sounded too real.

Lavender blinked, looking confused. "What's a _fetus_? Is that a Muggle thing?"

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face

Before she could answer, the blonde laughed and took her hand. "I'm just messing with you. Let's go see Madam Pomfrey."

* * *

Later, as she sat in the hospital wing with Lavender standing beside her having explained all the pertinent points to Madam Pomfrey (for which Hermione would be eternally grateful), she waited as the medi-witch explained the charm she would be using, and then repeated herself as she raised her wand.

"Remember, white for no, and yellow for yes," she said again, and then she flourished her wand.

Hermione didn't pay attention to the words of the spell, but she felt it hit her belly like a cool breeze and then sink into her gut before dissipating. When it had gone, she looked back up to Madam Pomfrey, confused. What the hell did _no_ colour mean?

"Raise your shirt, dear," said Madam Pomfrey.

Hermione scrambled to do as she was told, untucking her blouse and pulling it up so she could peer down at her own abdomen. She could see the faded remains of a love bite just above her waist and hoped that no one else noticed . . . but then she saw what she'd been looking for.

Low on her belly, the flesh above her womb glowed white, pale as the moon and startling against her otherwise dark skin.

"Yay!" Lavender cheered, actually jumping in the air and clapping her hands before her smile dropped. "Wait, white was the 'no' one, right?"

"I'm not—" Hermione looked up at Madam Pomfrey, panicking suddenly because, for as many times as the woman had said it, she couldn't remember either.

"No, dear," said the medi-witch. "You're not pregnant."

"Yay!" Lavender repeated with just as much enthusiasm as the first time.

Hermione let her shirt drop just as the weight did from her shoulders. She let out a breath she hadn't realised had been stuck in her chest since Sunday night, and then she looked back up at Lavender.

"No fetus," she said, feeling her lips curl upward of their own volition.

"What's a fetus again?" Lavender asked. Madam Pomfrey gave her a sharp, disappointed look, causing the girl to hold up her hands in supplication. "Oh my god, I am _just joking_."

Hermione watched as Madam Pomfrey set about collecting all sorts of 'educational materials' after that, and then stared down at the pile of leaflets the matron deposited on her lap, all of which were about sex, contraception, and the general dangers of intercourse. For the first time that week, she let herself feel relieved. She wanted to tell Harry.

Her stomach turned.

No. Harry couldn't know. She couldn't tell him how close she'd come to ruining everything. How scared she'd been that this thing between them had spiralled out of control because of her. She would never want him to think she'd meant to trap him. And a secret, selfish part of her didn't want to scare him off.

"Thanks," she said, shoving the thoughts down deep as she glanced up at Lavender. "Thank you."

Lavender took her hand and squeezed it. "You'd do the same for me," she said softly, and then looked back up at Madam Pomfrey. "And maybe one day soon she will."

The mediwitch sucked in breath and narrowed her eyes.

Lavender's shoulders slumped. "Jeez, everyone's so _serious_ all the time."

They _both_ left the hospital wing with leaflets that day.

* * *

Harry wasn't quite sure what had happened between Lavender and Hermione, but the two girls seemed to be friendlier than ever. Whatever had been stressing Hermione out had appeared to practically vanish overnight. He didn't want to pry, but he had politely asked Lavender what had happened. The blonde had rolled her eyes at him, called him a "boy" in a derisive tone, and then gone to her own room, leaving him more confused about women than ever before.

But Hermione seemed like herself again, so he didn't want to push it.

Late one afternoon in Charms, Flitwick was on a roll telling detailed stories about the advancement of charm alterations, the history of said alterations, and he'd speckle in how to accomplish said alterations within the story just to make sure the students weren't falling asleep in class.

However, due to what he, Hermione, and Ron had had to make do with while hunting Horcruxes, they'd already covered a lot of what Flitwick was currently teaching. There were only so many things a person could do in a tent in the middle of nowhere, so at one point, Hermione had started reading textbooks to them.

As Hermione was on his mind, Harry glanced over at her.

She was still meticulously taking notes on advanced charms that she'd known for more than a year, one hand on a quill, and the other curling a loose lock of hair around her finger. They'd sat apart, as Flitwick liked to pair the more knowledgeable students near those who needed a little help along the way. Somehow, that still left Harry and Ron paired together—though neither was willing to admit which of them was the one who apparently needed the help.

Hermione, however, sat beside Neville, who watched Flitwick with a bit more confidence than he'd done in the past. Harry, not for the first time, wondered what the rest of his friends had gotten up to in the Room of Requirement during the previous year.

Smiling, Harry picked up his quill and wrote on his parchment, tapping the paper with his wand and a very quietly whispered spell that vanished the letters from his view only to reappear in the middle of Hermione's notes.

_Feeling better?_

Hermione looked up from her parchment almost immediately, scanning the classroom until her gaze fell on his. He gave her a smile and she looked back down at her notes.

_Could be better_ , she wrote.

Harry frowned a little at the text, wishing he could decipher her tone. So he played it safe and wrote back: _How can I help?_

_Not sure you can from all the way over there. You're talented, but you're not_ _that_ _talented._

His brows raised. This, he could certainly decipher. He was a little insulted, but damn if she wasn't right. He was half tempted to raise his hand and ask Flitwick about some more adult charms, and the thought actually made him chuckle, drawing Ron's attention.

"Nothing," Harry said. "Just thought of something funny."

"Well, don't make it look like we're not paying attention," Ron said, though one glance at his notes showed a detailed drawing of a new mascot and banner for the Chudley Cannons.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Right."

Tapping the quill on the parchment once he was sure that Ron wasn't looking, Harry grinned as he wrote: _Neville is sitting right next to you, you know. I think you have some more fantasies that you've not told me about. Should I be jealous?_

This earned him an eye roll, and he wished they were alone so that he could spank her pretty little arse for it.

_Now that you've given me the idea . . ._

Holding back a snort of amusement so as not to gain anyone's attention, Harry scribbled down on the parchment, whispering the charm back to her paper.

_As happy as I would be to show off how pretty you are when you come, I'm not really into sharing. Though, I'm not opposed to people looking. You know that better than anyone._

He couldn't tell from where he sat whether her cheeks had darkened, but he could see her squirm just a bit in her seat before she stilled.

_Yes_. That was all she sent, and he had almost set his quill to parchment again by the time another note came through. _You could fuck me across Flitwick's desk in front of the entire class, and I don't think I'd mind._

He shifted a little in his seat. The memory of their time at Limitation alone was enough to get him half-hard, right there in the middle of class. He was tempted to adjust himself, but if anyone looked his way, he'd certainly be caught.

Of course he _knew_ she was exaggerating, but Merlin, the filthy mouth on her did things to him.

_I haven't fucked you on a desk yet._ He wrote back. _Sure is tempting._

_Haven't you? Maybe it was Neville._

"Wow!" Harry said the moment the words scrawled across his parchment.

Automatically, everyone in the room looked at him. Everyone except Hermione who was staring very hard at her notes as her shoulders shook.

Flitwick blinked in confusion before chuckling and tapping his wand against whatever it was that he'd written on the board. "Yes, Mr Potter, wow indeed! And to think that before we even thought to use a Muggle-Repelling Charm, that poor Muggles ended up just wandering into mermaid territory without a thought to it! But no, no, no, a simple Notice-Me-Not will not do the trick for crowds of more than ten!"

Clearing his throat and waiting for everyone to stop staring at him, Harry scribbled on the parchment without looking at it. The words were probably messier than usual, but he hoped that he got his point across.

_Sweetheart, I should spank your arse red for even suggesting that._

He could see bite her lip from across the room, could see the way she crossed her legs beneath her desk.

_Would you use the paddle?_

Licking his lips, Harry wrote: _My hand. I like the way your skin feels. Plus, then I wouldn't have to put the paddle down before slipping my fingers in your tight little—_

"What do you think?" Ron asked, holding up his finished Chudley Cannons image.

Harry practically pulled something as he threw his arm on top of his notes.

Ron glared at him. "What's up with you? You're acting funny."

"Am not," Harry hissed. "And shush."

" _You_ shush, you knob."

"Gentlemen?" Flitwick called out, looking up at the two of them, concerned. "Everything all right?"

Harry cleared his throat. "Just discussing the umm . . . point you were making, Professor."

Before Ron could look at the parchment, Harry tapped his wand on the paper and sent the message unfinished.

Hermione's reply didn't take long to appear in its place.

_My tight little . . . what? Fist? You really must learn to be more clear, Harry._

Harry peaked at the note from under his arm and quickly wrote back: _You're getting awfully smart, Miss Granger. I think you're trying to provoke me. Tell me how I should punish you for all this backtalk._

When he glanced up at her, she was licking her lips, and then she bit her lower lip hard. When she leant forward to write, her hair covered her face, but when she looked back up and met his gaze, he saw the hesitancy there, as if she were nervous about how he might react to what she had written.

_You could always start with my tight little arse_ , he read once the words appeared on his parchment.

His breath quickened and his mouth watered at the thought. God, she was filthy. If he truly had his way, he'd chain her to his bed and never let her leave unless she begged him.

Overly eager, he wrote: _Maybe I'll just start with your pretty little mouth_.

He tapped his parchment confidently and grinned up smugly.

That is until he caught Ron gaping at him from the side, clearly having seen the note.

"Merlin, Harry."

"Shut up," Harry said hurriedly. "You didn't see anything."

Ron scoffed loudly. "Yeah, right! You just wrote that—"

Harry clamped his hand over Ron's mouth, and their desks shook loudly as the metal legs shifted against the floor, creating a horrid, scratching sound.

Just then, across the room, Neville apparently took notice of Harry and Ron's commotion and leant over to speak to Hermione.

Harry didn't know if he saw what appeared on her parchment, as he couldn't hear what was being said, but Hermione startled so badly at Neville's proximity that she slammed her fist on the tabletop trying to put down her quill and swore loudly at the pain of it, drawing the attention from the class and Flitwick.

"Miss Granger?" Flitwick called out to her in obvious concern, and then he began making his way toward her desk. "Are you all right?"

"F-fine, Professor!" she called, and she grabbed her wand with shaking hands.

Harry could tell that she was trying not to draw attention to the note he was sure was still on her parchment, maybe she was even trying to vanish it, but all a jerky wave of her wand accomplished was setting the entire parchment on fire.

Beside her, Neville yelped, and when Hermione looked down, she did too, pushing herself back from the table so hard that the legs of her chairs went out from under her and she fell backward onto the floor with a shriek.

Harry's eyes widened at the flames, and only then did he realise his hand was still covering Ron's mouth. He withdrew it quickly, only to see his best friend attempting to glare a hole right through his head.

Looking at the small fire, Ron snorted. "I don't think she liked whatever idea you've sent her."

Reaching beneath his desk, Harry punched Ron in the thigh. Hard.

"Miss Granger!" Flitwick sounded alarmed now as he reached Hermione, extinguishing the fire she'd started and then turning toward her as she scrambled to her feet, her hair a mess and her eyes so wide they looked like nearly perfect circles.

"Sorry," she said, looking mortified as she patted her skirts. "Sorry. Hit my hand." And then she held her knuckles out toward the tiny professor as if it were proof.

Harry chanced a glance at Ron, who was rubbing his thigh and shaking his head, quietly muttering, "Look what you did."

"Yes," said Flitwick across the room as Neville righted Hermione's chair. "Try not to let it happen again, will you, Miss Granger?"

"Of course, Professor," Hermione nodded, and she looked so uncomfortable Harry actually felt guilty.

Thankfully, the chime sounding the end of class echoed through the room, and most students began gathering their belongings quickly, shuffling past Flitwick as though he weren't there at all.

Wincing a little, Harry made his way toward Hermione, smiling awkwardly at Neville as they met.

"Nev."

"Harry," Neville said. "I guess things will always be interesting even without Death Eaters, right? Sorry you lost all your notes, Hermione."

Harry cringed.

"It's fine," said Hermione, giving a nervous little laugh before looking up at Harry. "Should we be off then?"

"Yeah," Ron said as he approached, wearing a too-innocent smile on his face. "I think Hermione needs to cool down a bit."

Harry narrowed his eyes at him.

"You know, because the _fire_ ," Ron said with a little knowing grin before walking out of the classroom.

Neville looked at all three of them in obvious confusion. "Umm, well, I'll see you all at dinner."

Holding his hand out to Hermione, Harry hoped that she would still take it, all things considered. "Forgive me?"

She placed her hand in his without hesitation, but as she leant in to give him a kiss on the cheek, she whispered. "You might have to _make_ me."

Harry groaned and let out a happy little sigh and whispered, "Sweetheart, you have no idea." And then a thought occurred to him. "There's an unused classroom on the third floor." A pause. "It has a _big_ desk."

She hummed innocently. "A big desk? Are we looking for someplace to revise?"

Looking over his shoulder to watch as Flitwick left through the back entrance of the classroom that led to his personal office, Harry reached up and rubbed her bottom lip with his thumb. "Well, I didn't really get a chance to finish my thought earlier. There was something, I remember . . . about doing _something_ with this mouth of yours."

"Mmm." She leant into his touch, and soon he felt that hot little mouth enveloping his thumb up to the first knuckle, her tongue swirling around it for a moment before she popped off and gave him a brilliant, eager smile. "Sounds good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter again this week because we have been writing like crazy AND it's ShayaLonnie's birthday today, so she wanted to share another chapter as a gift to YOU all. ♥


	20. Chapter 20

She was feeling good again, riding the high of flirtation as she strove to forget the stress of the first week of school, and so when Harry proposed a rendezvous in the unused classroom on the third floor—the very same one she had often disappeared to when the library had been too loud or she'd needed a great big desk to spread her research out on—she was all too eager to take him up on the offer.

The rest of their classes that day took too long, and Hermione found it difficult to focus on the material as she thought ahead to their upcoming encounter. She hadn't felt truly free since Grimmauld Place, and she was beginning to resent the classes that confined her and the studies she'd once thrown herself into. A part of her wished she'd _stayed_ in London when school had begun again. She was an adult after all, and she'd never felt so good as she had lounging on Harry's sofa reading a book and not thinking about N.E.W.T.s . . . but she'd worked too hard and for too long. And there was Harry to consider. He had seemed to look forward to their return, and she didn't think she could deny him anything.

The last class of the day ended, and Hermione rushed down to take the evening meal in a hurry. Harry was there, but he didn't say anything except, "Hello, love," when she arrived at the table, and "Going so soon?" when she rushed away from it. His smirk said everything though, and she almost laughed aloud at the thrill it gave her.

After that, she waited. There was homework to do, so she did it. She needed a bath, so she took it. She had a book she'd been planning to read, so she stared at it in a stupor as a pleasant sort of anxiety ate her alive, and then she set it aside.

She checked the time. Curfew had just passed, so she disillusioned herself—wearing only one of her sexier nightgowns with her school robes buttoned over the top—and then she sneaked down the eighth year corridor and out of the common room.

The hallways were empty save for the few prefects making their first rounds, and she sidestepped them so easily she wondered how she'd ever thought herself effective at their age.

When she came to the classroom, she did as she'd imagined doing all day—as she'd planned in the bath and plotted on her walk down from the seventh floor. She warded the door, keying it for her wand and Harry's alone, and then she cancelled the disillusionment charm, took off every single stitch of clothing she was wearing and splayed herself over the desk, face up and heart racing.

And then she waited.

She lost track of time there on the table, but she didn't want to move, not when Harry's request before they had parted ways after Charms had been so very clear.

_"I want you on the desk,"_ he'd said. _"After curfew. I want you wearing nothing and looking like a feast."_

And she wanted that too. She wanted him to come in and see her laying across the desk as he'd asked, wanted to make him ache with how much he needed her. And maybe she wanted him to _devour_ her like a feast too.

"You're breathing really hard," Harry's voice came from the end of the desk where her feet were, but when she looked, she saw nothing there. Was he under the cloak? "Worried someone might walk in?"

"I didn't know you were here already," she confessed, feeling her cheeks heat at the thought that he'd been there, watching her undress, watching her with her legs spread and her sex on display as she waited for him.

He let out a soft chuckle. "Well, I didn't have near as much to do as you normally do. I've been here waiting." He let a pause slip fluidly between them like water. "And watching."

Without meaning to, she felt her thighs clench at his words.

"Did you like it? Watching?"

"I never get tired of looking at you," he said affectionately. "Merlin, look at you, Hermione."

She did as she was told, peering down the length of her body and taking in every curve, indentation, and scar. Somehow, knowing his eyes were on her there in the moonlight filtering in through the high window, made her see not just the imperfections, but the whole of it.

She felt beautiful.

"I'm alright," she said at last because it seemed too vain to say otherwise, but she knew Harry would be able to see her smile as she spoke the words.

"None of that," Harry insisted in that tone that made her knees weak, just as he dropped the invisibility cloak, letting it pool on the ground.

He stood there at her feet, shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of dark Muggle jeans that she knew he favoured. His eyes were dark with desire and a heady promise she could feel mirrored in her own gaze. He _wanted_ her, wanted her almost as much as she wanted him, and it was enough to make her wish they'd never left Grimmauld Place all over again.

"That's not fair," she said when she could speak again.

His dark gaze took on something that could only be described in one word: hunger.

"What's not fair?" he asked as he placed a hand on her ankle and trailed it up her leg and around her calf.

"You. Looking like that," she answered. "I don't think any one person should be allowed so many muscles. It's unseemly."

His facade broke for just a moment, and he smiled, patting his stomach with his free hand. Harry had always been lithe, but with the lack of Quidditch this year, he had clearly been focused on regaining the weight he'd lost the year before and then toning what the copious amounts of food he consumed did to his body.

"Nothing about _you_ is unseemly," he said as he leant forward, resting an elbow on the desk between her legs to plant an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her knee. When she gave a little gasp he kissed her again but higher, just as his hand on her calf pushed her leg further to the edge of the desk, allowing him more room.

"I thought I was supposed to be using _my_ mouth this evening," she breathed, as his lips trailed up the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, lingering at any spot that made her shiver.

With a Seeker's speed, his arms reached beneath her legs, tugging her body down the length of the desk until both knees hung off the edge and he was positioned right between her thighs. What little light was in the room reflected off of the muscles in his arms as they tensed around her.

"Maybe I wanted to use your other pretty parts first," he said and then lowered his head until she could feel his breath, hot against her cunt.

"Harry . . ." Oh Merlin. She might actually die if he didn't touch her, if the warm air against her was nothing but a tease. Desperate already and unashamed of it, Hermione whined, lifting her hips just a bit until she felt his lips brush against her. Her back arched at the contact, and her hips jerked even more.

She could hear him groan, low and soft, before he said, "Well, I did mention something about a feast, didn't I?"

"Fuuuuuck." As his lips made full contact with her, Hermione moaned. The sound echoed through the empty class, and though once she might have been embarrassed by it, now it only served to heighten her pleasure. She liked moaning, liked gasping, liked letting him hear her when he made her feel marvellous and sultry and hedonistic. She liked that with him she could let herself be free and unencumbered by any of the cares that had plagued her for so long. She loved it, even. Loved being with him. Like this.

"Jesus," Harry moaned, and he let his tongue lay flat against her as he slowly licked upward, sucking hard once he reached her clit, and releasing her with a little pop of his lips.

At the sensation, she cried out, her thighs clenching as she let her hands reach down to tangle in his hair.

"Don't stop," she begged. She didn't think she could bear it if he stopped. She _needed_ this. Him.

He took full advantage then, almost as though he had been waiting for her to beg. His arms slipped around her legs, resting on the tops of her thighs, and she could feel his beard rub against her skin. He returned to lavishing his full attention on her with firm strokes until she actually felt his tongue slip inside of her, causing her to clench and then scream.

"Harry!" She cried, and he didn't stop as she curled upward, fisting his hair so hard she would wonder later how he'd managed not to holler, and pulling him in toward her. She wanted him harder. _Deeper_. Wanted everything he was willing to give her, in every conceivable position, until she was old and grey and couldn't enjoy such things any longer . . . until she was dead, perhaps.

"More," she heard herself plead, "Just a little more. Fuck. Right there, Harry. Right there. _Please_!"

But then suddenly, even with her gripping his hair for dear life, he pulled back, breathing hot and heavy against the inside of her thigh again.

"You're getting bossy," he muttered with a little chuckle.

She panted, her hands still clenched in his hair and her eyes wide. Slowly, she forced herself to release him, forced her hands back up over her head where she grabbed one wrist and clung for dear life.

"Good girl," he said, adjusting his posture until his mouth was again by her knee. He licked the skin there before placing another wet kiss and a heavy exhale, whispering, " _Incarcerous_."

The bonds that she felt wrap like snakes around her wrists and ankles came out of nowhere, tugging her hands apart and high up over her head, fastening them to something she could not see just as the ropes at her ankles bit down and did the same, spreading her thighs far apart and leaving her completely exposed.

Shifting a little, Hermione tested the restraints, her heart beating fiercely in her chest. They were tight, and she felt the barest stretch at her shoulders as well as the hard edge of the desk biting into the backs of her knees. It wasn't the most comfortable sensation, but—

"Oh!"

His mouth was on her again before she could give any more thought to the bindings.

He pulled away again, this time actually laughing a little harder, not the rough chuckle he seemed to reserve for their more adventurous play.

"Forgot something," he said, and then reached behind him, retrieving the wand that had likely been tucked in his back pocket. He waved the piece of holly in the air, casting a Silencing Charm so strong, Hermione could actually see the magic sweep up over the walls and ceiling.

He put his wand back and moved back down again before pausing and looking up at her. "Oh wait. The contraceptive charm. I didn't bring a condom," he said, looking briefly embarrassed.

Hermione smiled, despite the small discomfort of the bonds. "It's a very good thing I can cast it wandlessly then," she said, and she could hear the proof of her arousal still in the huskiness of her voice.

Closing her eyes, she cast the charm, feeling the light tingle low in her belly that told her it had worked. She smiled without opening her eyes again, and then said, "By all means, Mr Potter, continue."

"Who said you were giving the orders here?" Harry asked in an amused tone before lowering his mouth to her again. Before he touched her, though, he said softly—just loud enough that she could hear him, "By the way, I'm not kissing or fucking you again until you come on my mouth."

"Oh lord."

He set to work at once, and as he laved and sucked and nipped at the sensitive flesh between her thighs, paying special attention to her clit, she thought he must very much want to fuck her again. And she wanted to come, desperately, but there was a special sort of power in having him there in front of her, his mouth on her cunt, his hands cupping her bottom as he lifted her to his face. She wanted to enjoy it, so she let the sensations roll over her. She left her limbs loose and tried to ignore the creeping numbness in her hands and feet, focusing instead on every delicious stroke of Harry's tongue.

As though he could sense the tension rising in her, or maybe because of his own enthusiasm and greed, Harry wandlessly freed one of her feet, effectively launching her thigh up and over his shoulder just as he thrust his tongue back inside of her, allowing him the perfect angle that made her forget completely about enjoying the moment in favour of groaning and lifting her hips as far as she could manage before the restraints pulled her back down.

"Fuck, Harry. Gonna come," she said, almost breathless now. And then she _did_ come, the sensation exploding through her like pure magic. It rippled outward from the spot where Harry still lapped at her, flowing over every single inch of skin until she was pins and needles, her nipples stiff, and her back aching with the force of it.

His arms swiftly released her legs, which went pliant. The one that had been freed from constraint practically fell off the edge of the desk. She could faintly hear the now-familiar sound of his buckle, followed by the zip of his jeans, and then she felt him kneeling between her splayed thighs.

"Sometimes, I can't believe how lucky I am," Harry said just as she felt his length, hot and hard, pushing up through her sensitive labia and over her too-sensitive clit, to rest just above her mound. She couldn't help the little groan that escaped her at the sensation.

Using her still-free leg, Harry adjusted it up around his hip and then angled himself down, sheathing himself to the hilt inside of her in one long thrust. It felt like heaven, hot and full and stretched so tight she could feel every pulsing inch of herself yielding to him . . . but along with that delicious, brimming sensation, came a jolt of pain.

Her eyes flew open wide as the back of her knee—the one still bound to what she assumed was the leg of the desk—was jammed tight against the edge of the surface where it rested, carried forward by his thrust.

"Oh," she said because she was still having trouble thinking clearly at all, and certainly wasn't coherent enough after the climax Harry had given her to form full sentences.

Harry's eyes were closed, lost in the pure bliss of her body as he surged in and out of her at a pace she normally relished, even hungered for, on a daily basis. As though he'd already figured out how soon into sex she usually begged him to go harder, he did just that. His hips struck forward, his cock doing delicious things to her even as her body was pushed up the desk, the ropes on her hands shifting hard against her wrists.

And her knee! Christ, but her knee hurt. Fuck, but it was hard to focus on the truly divine drag of his cock against her folds when her ankle was beginning to pinch too, and her wrists felt suddenly rubbed raw.

"Har-ry." She said his name between thrusts, her body jolting as she tried to find the words.

"Hermione," Harry moaned in reply, eyes still shut tight.

"My knee," she said after another particularly hard thrust, wincing as she spoke. It was actually quite unpleasant now. Not the sex . . . but she was having trouble focusing on that at all.

Harry moved his hand, hoisting her free leg up and settling _that_ knee in the crook of his arm.

"So close," he said through heavy breaths, adjusting just enough to reach what would normally have been the perfect angle to send her spiralling over the edge again. Unfortunately for her, that particular angle also jammed the tender underside of her bound knee so hard against the table that her eyes began to water. She felt something in her ankle pop.

"Ouch!" she yelped

Perhaps it was the volume that she used. Maybe the word snapped something in him. But the speed with which he withdrew and practically leapt away from her, not to mention the look of pure horror on his face, said that this was something else.

" _Finite_!" Harry yelled in the same tone of voice he was known for using when casting Expeliarmus—in battle. The ropes snapped with an audible sound as they released her limbs, and Harry stood at the side of the desk, jeans hanging around his hips, his hands shaking and his face pale.

Hermione felt blood rushing into her feet and her hands again, and they prickled as her knee throbbed and her ankle twinged. Merlin, she was glad to be shot of those ropes.

Tentatively but still with a bit of a rush in his steps, Harry made his way toward the top of the desk, gently taking one of her hands in his. The colour was darker than her arms, and there was a significant rope burn on her wrist. His fingers hovered over it for just a moment, never touching, and then—and she saw the exact moment when it happened—Harry glanced at the scar on her forearm.

He let go of her as though he'd been burned, turning his back to her and running his hands through his hair until he was tugging hard at it, all the while yelling, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

"Harry," she said his name quietly, _carefully_ as if she were speaking to a thestral foal in the forest. She knew what he must be thinking, what Harry _always_ thought of himself. The worst. "Harry, I'll be fine," she said, trying to reach for him as she shifted up and forward until she was sitting on the edge of the desk. Her knee still ached, but she could feel that there wasn't anything seriously injured in her ankle, and the knowledge was a relief.

"Don't!" he cried out, turning back to look at her. His eyes were wet, and while one hand still clung to the back of his head, the other let go—and he rubbed at the scar on his forehead. "Oh God," he said, taking in harsh breaths. "God, Hermione, I can't—I'm so—"

"Darling, please calm down," she said, not thinking as she moved to stand. The pain that was so obviously coursing through him was practically tangible. She could feel it thick in the air around them and wanted desperately to relieve him of it. But as she put weight on her leg, her knee gave just the slightest bit and she winced before leaning back against the desk.

"No, no, no," he insisted, his body jolting in obvious fear as she moved. She'd only ever seen him like this once: at the start of the year when he'd come into her room after having a nightmare.

Swallowing down what looked like fear, horror, and whatever might have been left of his pride, Harry tugged his jeans back up, fastening the buckle but ignoring the zip—the motion was so fast that his wand fell out of his back pocket and clattered to the floor.

"I'm so sorry," he said, and then, with one last pained look at her, he rushed out of the room, leaving behind his wand, his father's invisibility cloak, and her.

* * *

Harry didn't know where he was going.

He could feel the blood rushing in his ears. His skin felt cold as he made his way down a long corridor that felt more than looked familiar, since he couldn't focus his gaze on a single thing other than not running into a wall.

When he realised he had somehow made it back to the eighth year corridor, he rushed into the nearest bathroom and retched in the bin, not able to make it to the nearest toilet in time. Wiping his mouth and collapsing against the cold stone floor, Harry tried to catch his breath, but he couldn't block out the sound of Hermione yelping, which swiftly carried through his brain, turning into the sounds of her screaming and him being unable to save her.

But it wasn't Bellatrix this time carving into her arm. It wasn't a troll attacking her in the bathroom or a basilisk sneaking up behind her or a werewolf they were running from. It wasn't the terror of seeing her at the bottom of the Black Lake and knowing she wasn't his to save. It wasn't Dolohov cursing her, saved from death only by her own brilliance. It wasn't Greyback breathing in her face as she cried under his threats while Harry sat idly by, struggling for his own freedom against his bindings.

No. _He_ had done the binding. _He_ had made her scream. _He_ had left her injured.

Opening his eyes and wiping them with the back of his hand, Harry looked around the dark bathroom and let out another pitiful sob, punching a tightened fist against the wall until pain radiated up his arm.

His eyes focused on the floor.

He tried to block the sounds out, the smells out, the memories out.

And then, maybe because he was trying not to think of Hermione and what he had done just then, he stared at the floor and remembered the sound of Malfoy crying out, clutching his chest as blood poured out, soaking through the white shirt he'd been wearing.

Feeling sick again, Harry reached for the bin, but nothing else came up.

"Stupid," he muttered. "You never fucking THINK!"

Eventually, maybe because enough time had passed or because he had nothing left to give, Harry pulled himself to the sink—refusing to look at his goddamned reflection—and splashed cold water on his face.

Trying to slow his breathing, he raised his eyes to the mirror and took a good look at himself. Shockingly, there wasn't a monster staring back at him. A small part of him thought he might've seen the version of him that had slithered its way out of Slytherin's Locket in the Forest of Dean. Something grey and disgusting and full of smoke and Dark Magic.

That version of him had shown Ron a terrible sight, but Harry remembered it vividly as though the Horcrux had been taunting him instead of his friend. The Horcrux Harry, full of smug insults and a dark grin had taken the Horcrux version of Hermione in his arms. It had been profane. Harry had never been sure if he believed in any sort of god, but he had always believed in Hermione, and the sight of a Horcrux taking on her image that way had been blasphemy to him.

"No," Harry shook his head, focusing his attention on the scar that had faded somewhat but still reflected a bit of white skin beneath his black fringe. "You're dead," he whispered to the lightning shape. "You're dead, and I won't let you ruin me for her."

He was a fucking mess, that much was certain. But with everything he had gone through, with Hermione at his side, he had always managed to carry her through it. Then again, maybe she carried him.

_"I'll go with you,"_ she had once told him through teary eyes.

And he'd left her then.

Just like tonight.

"Fuck!"

Storming out of the bathroom, now with clear vision, he made his way down the corridor, bursting through the door of the room nearest his.

"Ron!"

Jumping from his bed, having clearly been still awake reading what looked like a comic book, Ron shouted in surprise. "Merlin, Harry! What's the matter with you? Wait," he paused and looked over the state of Harry. Ron's countenance changed instantly, and as though they were back in the middle of war, he was on his feet, shoulders tight and hands fisted at his side. "What's happened?"

Trying to swallow down the burn in his throat, Harry said, "I need you to . . . I need you to take Hermione to the hospital wing."

Ron's eyes widened, and Harry felt so much worse. "She's hurt? Was it one of the Slytherins?" He reached for his wand as he spoke, scooping it off of the small table beside his bed and then standing up straight again.

Shaking his head, Harry ran his hands down his face. "It's not—" He thought of the marks on her wrist and the way she'd stumbled a bit. She'd been able to stand a little, and stubborn as she was, she wouldn't have just waited down there for him. "It's not that bad," he forced himself to say, though he knew it was a lie—at least in his own mind. "But I know she won't go on her own, and I . . . I can't."

Ron's brow furrowed. "Is it a woman thing? Gin's got to go for potions sometimes."

"Please," Harry said, his voice and his resolve cracking. "Ron, I need you."

"Alright, mate," Ron answered after another moment, and then he settled his hand on Harry's shoulder and gave it a short, firm squeeze. "She'll be fine. Just you watch."

The walk to Hermione's door had never been farther, and Harry stayed only close enough that he could make sure she'd at least made it back to her room but far enough that he could leave the moment she opened her door.

Without saying another word, Ron knocked at the door.

"Er, Hermione? It's Ron."

There were several seconds of silence before she finally responded, and Harry felt relief and shame mix in equal portions before washing over his entire body.

"What is it?" she asked, sounding brusque.

Ron reached down, trying the handle to her door and finding it locked.

"Harry said you might need help getting to the hospital wing."

More silence.

"Did he?"

"Er, yeah. Do you? Need help?"

"Is Harry with you?"

Harry cringed, wanting to shake his head, but ultimately just stood there frozen to the spot.

Ron looked incredibly uncomfortable, but he was a good friend, so he nodded yes as he said, "No, don't reckon so. Won't you come out, Mione?"

"I don't need the hospital wing," Hermione called back.

Ron tried the handle again, but as his fingers touched it there was a small blast of magic that zapped at his fingertips. Hermione had set the wards.

Now Ron looked worried.

"Look, I'm only trying to make sure you're alright," he said, rapping on the door with his knuckles as he spoke.

"Go away," Hermione demanded from within. "I'm reading."

Harry felt his stomach lurch again at her words. Fuck. Despite how he felt about himself, his need to make sure she was safe overpowered him, so he stepped to Ron's side and said, "Hermione, please."

The sound of her bare feet padding across the floor made him step back, and he heard a small thunk on the other side of the door that he imagined was her forehead.

"Ron, you fucking liar," she whispered fiercely.

"Please," Harry said again. "Will you please let him take you?"

She sighed heavily, and he heard another little thunk.

"I'm not upset," she said next, her tone lower now as if she meant the words only for him. "Harry, I'm not angry at you. It was an accident."

Ron's eyes widened at her words, and he turned a glare on Harry so fierce that he thought his best friend might curse him right there in the hall. As was his instinct when faced with a threat, Harry reached for his wand only to realise that he'd dropped the fucking thing back in the classroom. The cloak too. Fuck!

" _What_ was an accident?" Ron said, too loud for the corridor after curfew.

"Piss off, Ron," said Hermione from behind the door. "It's none of your bloody business." And then she lowered her voice again. "I'm fine. Okay? I'm not hurt. I'm just . . . I want to be alone for a little while. I'm _reading_."

Ron looked at Harry as if to say _"Well thanks for involving me in whatever this shit is!"_

Harry shrugged, feeling utterly defeated as he leant forward and rested his forehead against her door. "Swear it," he softly begged her. "Swear to me that you're not hurt."

She sighed, and the sound was muffled by the surface between them, but then he heard her whisper something and felt the ward she'd used to lock Ron out dissolve. The handle turned as the door swung inward just a bit, and Hermione's small hand popped out of the open space.

Harry let out a small exhale of relief at the sight of her healed wrist but felt like a right shit when he realised that she was holding his wand. Tentatively, he reached out, letting his fingers brush affectionately over hers before he gripped the holly.

Daring to ask, because an invisible cloak was a bitch to find especially when it was a Deathly Hallow and couldn't be summoned by magic, Harry muttered, "Did you happen to get my—?"

"You mean _my_ cloak? Yeah, I got it." She withdrew her hand and shut the door again.

Tilting his head back and looking skyward if only to avoid whatever expression Ron was throwing at him, Harry sighed and muttered, "That's fair."

When he finally lowered his head to give one last look at her door before leaving, he felt Ron's hand smack straight across his face.

"Ow!" He grabbed his jaw and turned a glare on his friend.

Ron shrugged, completely unrepentant. "I don't know what the bloody hell the two of you are on about, but you looked like you needed _and_ deserved that."

"Yep," was all Harry replied with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust us . . . we KNOW you want these kids to shape up and get their emotions straight, but we tagged the story for good reason ♥ We promise a HEA, but Harry and Hermione have a LOT of learning and healing to get through before they get there.


	21. Chapter 21

The first thing Harry saw the next day when he woke, was a bushy head of hair and a small leather book shoved straight in his face.

"We should have done our homework," said Hermione, who sounded as if she'd prepared a lecture.

Harry reached for his glasses and situated them on his face, focusing his eyes on the book in her hand; he wouldn't blame her if she beat him over the head with it. Catching the title and recognising it as one of the books she'd purchased from the shop with the weird lady that had asked too many questions about their sex life, Harry cringed and shook his head.

"No," he said, trying not to look down at her wrists which he knew she'd healed herself. "I'm not going to do that anymore."

" _Excuse_ me?" Hermione's eyes narrowed. She was on the bed, on her knees beside him as she sat back on her heels. "What do you mean you're not doing _that_ anymore?"

He slowly took in a breath, wincing at his sore throat from throwing up the night before. His ribs and back still ached from the violence of it. "I'm not going to risk hurting you again."

Impatiently, Hermione rolled her eyes. "I'm not hurt," she said. "And look, I found the _answer_!" She waved the slim book over his head again, and she had that same wild look in her eye he'd seen after good revision sessions for the last seven years. "Do you remember when you asked me outside of Limitation what a safe word was?"

He did remember, but he pursed his lips, refusing to acknowledge his participation in even _thinking_ about doing anything else that might put her in danger.

Hermione made an impatient noise. "I'll assume that's a firm 'possibly'," she said and then continued as if his participation didn't matter in the least.

Bloody hell, she really was going to lecture him.

"A safe word is a word agreed-upon between a dominant and a submissive before they begin to play," she said, and she sounded as if she were reading off a list of potion ingredients. "The agreed-upon word—something like, hyena, or pumpernickel, or _bowtruckle_ , even—is something one wouldn't normally say during sexual activities. Harry, are you paying attention?"

Rubbing the bridge of his nose and then his eyes beneath his glasses, not caring if he smudged them with his fingers, Harry sighed. "Hermione, after everything you've been through, you shouldn't have to—"

"Don't interrupt, dear," she chided, dropping the book on his chest.

He let his glasses drop back down on his nose and stared at her before looking at the book. " _You_ asked me a question."

She grinned. "So you _are_ paying attention."

"I hurt you."

"I'm fine," she dismissed him. "Now, the purpose of a safe word is to provide an easy, effective way to halt play entirely. You can see, after last night, why that might be useful. I think perhaps _Umbridge_ would make an effective one. Or even, _Skeeter_."

Blanching at the very thought of using either woman's name while in bed with Hermione had Harry briefly hoping that his cock would just shrivel up and die.

"What do you think?" Hermione looked eager now, and she leant forward as she spoke. "We could use something Muggle instead?"

"I think," Harry began slowly as he sat up in bed, "that I can't ever hear you . . ." He swallowed down his emotions, trying to keep control of himself. He slowly reached out, taking her small hand in his and gently rubbing his thumb over her wrist. "I can't do that again."

She blinked, and he thought he saw her eyes glistening before she looked down. "But I—" she swallowed. "Harry, I'm fine. I swear."

"You are _now_ ," he whispered. "And only because you're brilliant at healing charms."

"I don't—" she began again. "I don't want this to be over yet." Her voice was small . . . _Pained_.

He brought her hand up to his mouth, pressing his lips to her wrist. "I can control myself," he said softly. "Because I don't want to let you go either. I don't want this to end. So I can control it. I don't have to be like that. No more ropes, no more spankings, no more fucking bruises."

There were tears on her cheeks now, and they made him want to find a time-turner and fix all of this. Fix himself, somehow.

"But, I like the bruises," she said so softly he nearly missed the words. "I _like_ the spankings. I—What if _I'm_ the one who can't control herself?"

Confused, Harry focused on her eyes and brought a hand up to wipe one of the tears from her cheeks. "I don't understand."

She looked absolutely miserable as she forced her gaze up to his, but she was a Gryffindor, so she met his eyes without blinking.

"I think—I think maybe I need it," she confessed. "When we—and you're rough—I feel like everything's _right_. I feel _safe_."

Merlin, he wanted to give her the world, and this one thing she was obviously asking for still seemed like too much. Did she not understand? "It hurts to think of accidentally hurting you again," he said, letting go of her wrist and standing up.

He sighed, adjusting the jeans he'd fallen asleep in because he'd barely made it to bed the night before, not bothering to do anything more than collapse in a pile of what was now sounding a lot like self-pity.

On the bed, Hermione huffed as she swung her legs off the side and straightened her spine.

"Yes, well it hurts _me_ to think you don't trust yourself the way I do," she snapped, wiping at a stray tear and then sniffling once.

Raking his hands through his hair, Harry thought back to how Arthur had called Hermione delicate and Harry had practically laughed at the thought. Now . . . Fuck.

What did it even mean that _she_ needed this? He knew why this had all started months ago. Because of _him_. Because there was something wrong with _him_ , and Hermione, like she always did, threw herself on the sword to make him all better.

_She_ needed this?

Did she need _him_?

Still feeling a bit sick to his stomach, likely more from nerves and overused emotions that were frankly sorely underdeveloped, Harry stared at her there on the bed.

"I don't—" _I don't trust myself_ , he wanted to say.

_You deserve better than this_ , he wanted to tell her.

But, broken shell that he was with a slightly broken heart at the thought of what was implicated in her words, Harry said, "I love you, Hermione."

Her smile, when she'd heard him, was beautiful. It lit up her whole face from within, like a lovely, perfect lantern shining just for him. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and she let out a breath as she answered as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

"I love you too, Harry."

She loved him too?

Oddly enough, her response hurt a little. A strange little good ache like when Madam Pomfrey healed his broken bones from Quidditch injuries or the way that Dittany felt when poured on a burn. It stung its way right through every little wound all while stitching you back together.

She loved him too!

Harry couldn't help but crack a small smile, feeling the weight of last night fall away from him like slips of paper.

"You're my best friend," she said.

He watched as the brilliant smile she wore faded just a bit around the edges, and something tired moved in behind her eyes.

_Friend_.

There it was.

She'd always been his best friend. For as long as magic had been in his life, she had been there too. _Friend_ was something Harry hadn't even known until he'd come to Hogwarts and met Ron and Hermione. _Friend_ had been a revelation to him.

And yet now . . .

Clearing his throat, Harry said, "Right. We're best friends," he ran his hand through his hair again and adjusted the glasses on his face.

Hermione looked like she might say something more, her mouth was pinched and she looked concerned, but Harry couldn't bear to hear whatever it was she might add.

"So . . . Look, if you need this like you say you do. Then, I dunno," he looked down at the book feeling like it was suddenly a weight tied around his waist. "I don't much trust myself, but I do trust you. Always."

And, friend or not, the thought of losing her, of having an awkward distance created between them because God, how could they even go back to _just friends_ after everything they'd shared? How could he stay close to her and watch her go on to fall in love with someone else when he knew what it was to hold her? To kiss her? To be inside of her?

It would be like someone telling him he would have to give up his magic after everything it had given him. Just at the thought, Harry took a measured glance to make sure his wand was still on the table beside his bed. He _needed_ magic.

He needed _her_.

Whatever she thought this was, or whatever it was for her, he didn't want to lose it.

"I'll try," he said and leant down, placing a chaste kiss to her lips, wondering if she'd even respond or if 'friend' suddenly meant something else.

He didn't have to wonder for long.

She kissed him like she was desperate for him. For _it_ maybe. Harry wasn't sure, not anymore. But the way she wrapped her arm so sweetly around his neck, and the soft sigh she let out against his mouth _felt_ the same as they had before. She even gave what was becoming her signature little moan, which—his body betraying him—sent all the blood rushing south.

Leaving his chest feeling very vacant.

"Is there a word bigger than best friend?" she said after a moment as she lingered there against him, her eyes closed. "I feel like . . . it doesn't do us justice, sometimes."

_Love_ , Harry thought, but instead smiled with a lump in his throat.

" _Hermione_. That's my bigger word."

* * *

She had almost thought Harry meant he was _in_ love with her, and the swiftness with which she had returned the sentiment had made her ashamed. She'd caught herself just in time, just before she'd made a proper fool of herself . . . Because someone like Harry Potter, someone wholly good and brave and as wonderful as he was, didn't fall in love with someone as flawed and broken as her.

_You're my best friend._

The words had almost choked her on the way out. They'd felt wrong. He was more than that to her, he had been since before Christmas holiday. She couldn't put a finger on when exactly that had changed, but she knew it had.

But people like him didn't fall in love with people like her, and even though there was something clawing at her chest, begging her to look just a little closer and truly _examine_ it, she knew that people like her didn't deserve love anyway.

_You're my best friend._

It had been the hardest thing she'd ever said. She'd seen the hurt on Harry's face after she'd forced out the declaration. She'd felt a stabbing in her gut that had felt like punishment.

For a moment, she'd wondered whether he _had_ meant that he was _in_ love with her . . . but she knew the truth better than anyone. Loving her was dangerous, and even if, by some miracle, he did feel that way . . . well, it would be better for him if he didn't. Better for them _both_ , despite the sudden emptiness in her rib cage. Because even if the haste with which she had said she loved him in return had betrayed some truth to her that she had been studiously avoiding . . . It didn't mean anything.

She would keep loving Harry as she always had. She would keep prioritizing his needs. She'd continue to look out for him and care for him and make sure he knew how very special he was to her and to the world. Harry deserved that and always had. She'd do it till the day she died. But she'd never let herself become more important to him than he was to her, never let him think for a single second that _she_ was what he deserved. He was owed so much _more_.

And it had been a week, and after a few uncomfortable days where she hadn't been able to look him in the eye because it had hurt too much, things had gone back to normal.

They'd chosen a safe word, and he was smiling at her again. He was _flirting_ with her.

It didn't feel as good as it once had.

Every time he kissed her cheek, she felt something deep in her chest clench. Every time he complimented her, she wanted to tell him he was wrong. She tried to remember what it had felt like before, back before she'd ruined things with her stupid, emotional response to him. She hadn't worried so much, she knew. She hadn't over-thought every single glance in her direction, or sweep of his hand against the small of her back. She hadn't felt so bloody guilty.

"Still with me?" Harry asked, gently touching her arm. He sat directly across from her on her bed, both of them still fully dressed, legs crossed and facing one another with the book Hermione had bought sitting between them, open.

"Hm? Oh, yes." She looked back down at the open pages and at the quill she still held in her hand that was bleeding ink onto the end of a blank line. "Dammit."

"If you're not ready for this . . ." Harry began to say, gesturing at the book. Truthfully, it had taken a lot of effort to even get him back to this point.

"I'm fine," she said, forcing a smile and hoping it looked at least somewhat convincing. "Just distracted thinking." She dipped her quill in the ink bottle hovering in the air nearby and then set it back to the paper. She scribbled their safe word there, and then glanced back up at Harry. "That one still okay? We can change it if it's too silly."

Harry cringed looking down at the word. "I mean, neither of us has spent much time in the Muggle world lately, but it's ridiculous enough to be effective for what we need it for, I guess."

He was right. It really _was_ ridiculous. But it was also her favourite band, so she would forgive herself the indulgence.

"Right. There it is then." She looked at the next line. "What about this one? Anything you want jotted down?"

Tapping on the page, Harry said, "Soft limit, ropes." Before she even had a chance to react, he added, "I'm not there yet. Might not be for . . . a while."

She didn't know why she felt guilty about that, but she did, and she tried to hold back any signs of disappointment. Harry was allowed to have limits. It was good and healthy.

"Right." She jotted it down. "What about other sorts of restraints? Cuffs, and sticking charms and ties." She reached out and tugged on his with a little smile, the fabric smooth beneath her hand. "That kind of thing."

Harry did not return her smile or flirtation. Instead, he brought his eyes up to meet hers and then settled his hand on her knee. "I know we didn't have a safe word at the time," he began, "but why didn't—? No. It's not your fault. I just . . . Thinking back, I don't remember you trying to stop me. When did it actually start to hurt, Hermione?"

She let go of his tie and felt a hot flush of shame rise in her cheeks as she looked back down toward the book.

"Not long before you stopped," she lied, refusing to meet his gaze. She wasn't going to sit there and make him feel worse for _her_ mistake. If she'd told him clearly in the beginning that the bonds had been uncomfortable, if she'd stopped him then—well, ropes wouldn't be on his list of limits.

He stared at her; she could feel his eyes just . . . _on_ her. When she continued her refusal of meeting his gaze, his hand darted out in front of hers, flipping the book open until it landed on a chapter titled: _Honest Communication_. She felt the words pierce her, and her heart thundered in her chest.

"Fine," she said after another few moments of silence. " _Fine_. But it's not your fault, so you can't use this to beat yourself over the head with. It was my mistake, alright? Promise."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest. Okay?"

She didn't like the sound of that at all, but another glance at _Honest Communication_ had her nodding once.

"When the pain started," Harry began slowly, "and it was more noticeable than everything else we were doing . . ." His eyes met hers and they were dark. Not with lust, like she'd seen before, but with a calm-before-the-storm look in them. This wasn't him asking a question—this was him demanding an answer. "Did you _not_ say anything . . . at least until the end? Or did I just not hear you?"

"I—" Fuck. _Shit shit shit shit shit._ "Harry, you didn't do anything wrong," she repeated, because she didn't want to answer him, didn't want to add to the guilt she knew _he_ was still struggling with.

He only stared at her, like he knew she was holding back. But what the hell was she supposed to say? What was she supposed to _do_? She had _always_ protected Harry.

"Fuck." She squeezed her eyes shut tight. She felt at war with herself. She wanted to protect him . . . but she wanted what the chapter he'd used to indict her had promised as well, the safety of a relationship built on _trust_.

"I said your name," she confessed, her voice the barest hint of a whisper, really. "I think I may have said something about my knee." Her eyes flew open then. "But I wasn't loud and I didn't say stop or no. I just—I didn't realise it was much more than discomfort."

He sat there, listening and nodding in silence until she finished.

"Thank you," he eventually said with a heavy exhale. "You were right. We should have read the books first. We did need a safe word." And then Harry paused, running a hand through his hair. "I just need to make sure that you didn't purposely not try to get my attention because . . . I don't know, because of some weird thing where you were letting me hurt you just so I could . . . get off on it. And you didn't, right?"

"What?!" Her voice was shrill, but she didn't care. "Harry, no! NO."

"You swear to me that it wasn't anything like . . . 'Oh that hurts like hell, but Harry sure seems to be enjoying himself'?" He huffed a little. "Because you have to admit that as much as my martyr complex has pretty well defined me, _you've_ got one that can bloody match it."

"Jesus _Christ_." She shut the book entirely, tossing aside her quill and waving off the inkpot as it floated eagerly around her head. "Is this more of you not believing I actually _like_ what we do together? Because I'll tell you again, Harry—"

Harry narrowed his eyes and reopened the book, flipping through the pages roughly.

"This is me trying to do right by you," he said with a hard tone. "There's whole _lists_ here talking about how _I_ need to take better care of you, Hermione." He tapped his finger on the pages before looking back up at her. "Your safety is my number one priority, and I need it to be yours as well. Do you understand? Safety comes _before_ pleasure. Yours and especially mine."

" _You're_ my priority!" She snapped. "You thick-headed, ridiculous _troll_!"

"And you're my priority, and if this is what you want," he said, tapping the book again as his tone dropped into one that usually sent delicious chills down her spine, "then stop being a little _brat_ and take my concerns seriously."

She practically screamed in frustration, her fists clenching in her duvet as she fell back onto the bed so that she could stare up at the ceiling. It felt . . . safer. The plaster above had tiny cracks running through it and she traced them with her gaze as she waited for her body to lose some of the tension that had mounted as Harry had questioned her.

Soon, she felt the bed shift under her as Harry laid himself down next to her, his arm pressed against hers as he waited.

"I was surprised," she said, at last, the sound of her heartbeat still in her ears. "At first, when you tied me, it was just a little distracting. And then, after we . . . Well, when we got going, it got more painful. I wasn't expecting it, and I think I just—I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to stop entirely. I like being with you. Being tied was exciting to me. I _like_ the idea of being at your mercy. And when it got to be too much . . . Well. I stopped you."

She turned her head to the side, feeling the cool fabric against her cheek as she met his emerald gaze. He was watching her with completely devoted attention.

"I'd never just let someone hurt me," she said, hoping he could see the truth of her words. "I fought like hell when Lestrange—I'm not in the habit of letting myself be damaged. Not by anyone. So when I tell you I enjoy the things we do together, that I like having my arse spanked and being tied to tables and being kept on the edge for so long I can hardly think straight . . . That's not me humouring you."

Harry licked his lips thoughtfully, looking as though he were letting her words roll around in his head for a moment. Then he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

"I like taking care of you," he said quietly. "And don't get me wrong, getting to boss you about is a pretty good highlight since you've been bossing me around since we were children," he said with a little laugh. "But this . . . _thing_ we have . . . my favourite part is making you happy. And safe."

Merlin, could he be any more perfect? She rolled to her side, facing him.

"So if you want me to keep going, I'll keep going," he agreed. "As long as you're happy. And don't get me wrong, it's no chore for me," he added with a little grin. It wasn't as dark and lust-filled as it had been before their unfortunate night in the third floor classroom, but a spark seemed to be slowly coming back. "I like making you happy in all _sorts_ of ways."

And he _did_ make her happy . . . But he also made her heart ache as she took in his handsome features and the book between them dug into her hip. It was unfair, this _devotion_ he seemed to reserve for her these days. The careful attention he gave her and the concern he held for her safety. It was more than she had ever expected from this thing between them, from this other facet of the relationship they'd been building for half their lives. It was unexpected and consuming and frightening as hell. And it wasn't why they'd begun this in the first place. This had been about helping Harry. It had been about giving him an outlet to soothe the stresses he'd carried like lighting between his shoulder blades.

So why did she feel as if _she_ were the one who needed it like air?

Why did the thought of losing it make her want to disappear?

"I'm happy," she said, her throat raw. "Undeservedly so."

He pressed his thumb against her lips. "None of that," he said sternly. "If we're both on the same page going forward, then let's get back to rules and limits. No more talking like this. Talk badly about yourself and I'll smack your arse, and you won't like it one bit."

Her eyes widened, and despite herself and her own melancholy, she felt herself responding to his tone and to his threat.

"Alright," she agreed, licking her lips and feeling the tip of her tongue sweep over his thumb.

He drew back his hand from her mouth, settling it on her hip and letting it move around to gently cup her bottom. "But speaking of your arse," he said with a little smile. Something had definitely changed. It wasn't so much a hesitation in his words or actions, but a care behind each one whereas before they'd all felt a little reckless. Harry was being specific with every word and movement. "When it comes to your limits?"

Was he—?

"Are you asking if my bum is off-limits?"

He answered by raising a single brow.

She let herself think about it, imagined all the ways he could pay attention to that particular part of her.

"I quite like the idea of it being _within_ limits."

Harry exhaled a little groan, and she could feel the bed shift a little with the movement of his hips. "Good to know," he said, swallowing. "But that will wait for later. I need to make it clear that you are required to sleep in my bed every weekend," he said, brushing a tender finger against her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed as she leant into it. "And at least one day a week, I intend on, how did you put it? Keeping you on the edge until you can't think straight."

"Merlin," she breathed.

"Now," he said, pressing his lips against hers and kissing her. It wasn't hard and passionate like when they'd been alone at Grimmauld or even chaste like he'd kissed her after she'd gotten him to agree to trying again. It was as though he were savouring the taste of her, slow and purposeful. "Unless you have anything else to add, I think there's something we need to address."

Something to add? She was having trouble thinking much at all with him speaking to her like that and _touching_ her for the first time in a week. She forced herself to remember the short list she'd formed to bring into the conversation with Harry . . .

"Er, I don't think I'm ready for whips. I know we saw that at the club and—I'm not saying I'll _never_ , but it's not something I want _now_."

Harry nodded. "We're on the same page then. And if any limits change, we talk about them right?"

"Right."

"You all right to move on?" Harry asked tentatively.

She consulted her inner list.

"I don't fancy the idea of er—what was it the shop lady called it? Thestral play?"

Laughing, Harry nodded. "I think we're pretty tame compared to some of the people we've recently met."

"And no sharing," Hermione added. "I don't ever—I mean, I don't think that's a limit that will _ever_ change for me. _You're_ the only one I want to touch me."

Harry kissed her again and then whispered, "They can look all they want," he said, reminding her of their night at Limitation. " But I'm _never_ going to let another man touch you."

And then, with his lips still brushing against hers, she felt his hand moving between them and heard the distinct and familiar sound of the zip of his jeans lowering.

"Hermione? Are we good?"

Merlin, was that her hand trembling?

"Y-yes," she said, and she couldn't tell why she was nervous, but there was a fluttering low in her belly as Harry pressed his erection against her thigh.

"Because all of this talk, especially about making you happy, well . . ." He pressed against her again until she bit her lower lip and shifted toward him on the bed. "And it just occurred to me that you called me a _troll_ a few minutes ago."

"Did I?" she asked, nearly breathless as she drew up her skirt just far enough that he could feel his cock against the flesh of her thigh.

"You did," Harry said, kissing the corner of her mouth. "And something tells me that it would make you _very_ happy . . . if I let you apologise to me for that."

He paused and kissed her again. "With your mouth."

She met his gaze with a quickness she'd not managed yet that night, and when she saw the devilment there, the eagerness and the _dare_ . . . She knew she would be apologising all night long.

And he was right, it would make her very happy indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The world feels like “this is where things went wrong” flashbacks in a dystopian novel right now, and it’s got us both struggling. Our hearts break for the Black Community, and we state emphatically in this moment that Black Lives Matter. We cannot begin to understand the struggle of Black People in this country or in the world, but the small parts we have seen make it clear that we have to do better to support our Black friends, neighbors, and citizens and elevate their voices. We have to do the work of becoming anti-racist.
> 
> Black. Lives. Matter.
> 
> This story, derivative and magical as it is, does not exist in a vacuum beyond what’s happening in our world today. We wondered whether it would even be appropriate to post a chapter given the protests rocking across the United States right now... but we also want to continue to bring a little joy to the lives of our readers... and we want them to know where we stand on this issue. Please, if you can, take time to look into ways YOU can support the Black Community now.


	22. Chapter 22

Despite neither of them being prefects, Hermione had assured him that the password to the private bathroom was on a yearly rotation, so sneaking in was easy enough, especially when they went early enough in the morning before anyone else woke up.

It wasn't rough like it had been before that night in the third floor classroom, but thrusting inside of her body was still glorious. Sure, he was madly in love with her and she clearly had kept that wall of friendship up and solidified between them, but Harry wasn't one to just give up. He'd thought about it, sure. How much hurt could a heart take, after all? But he'd not let Voldemort take him down, and he wasn't going to just let the perfect girl out of his arms over the little fact that she wasn't in love with him . . . yet.

_Yet_ was a hopeful word.

So rather than drown his sorrows in anything that wasn't her, Harry put his foot down, gave himself a good kick in the arse, and decided to just show her that he was good for her. That maybe he could just wait . . . like his father had done for his mother.

And even if it took her forever . . . maybe he could just love her enough for the both of them.

So rather than hesitantly ease into their previous sex life, or worse, go tumbling into it recklessly, Harry savoured every moment with her. Every kiss lingered. Every touch was intentional. And Merlin, every drag of his cock pulling out of her was slow and torturous, but the way she shivered against him, crying out for more, made him that much harder.

Harry pressed his chest against her back, looking down at her perfect arse—that he'd yet to _thoroughly_ enjoy, though the promise of it was somewhere on her breathy exhales.

" _Fuck_. Harry, Jesus _Christ_. Shit. So—fucking—deep!" She moaned, and the sound went straight to the base of his spine. "Yes, God, please. Please. _Please!_ "

He loved her, in the sweet, solid way he knew would last his entire life . . . But he loved this too. Loved it when she begged him, when it was so good for her she couldn't keep herself from speaking in a flood of moans and expletives that made his heart race the same way it did when he jumped on a broom and took to the sky.

"If you want me deeper," Harry said against the back of her ear as one of his hands left her hip and traced around the bottom of her bum. She'd already begun letting him play with her with his fingers, slowly working her open as a testing of what she actually enjoyed, but he wasn't hinting at what they'd _already_ done. "You only need to ask nicely."

"Yes, yes, _yes_." She pressed back against him, trapping his fingers between her arse and his hips for a moment as she keened and throbbed around him. "Please, Harry. Please. Want it."

He chuckled at her eagerness but used it as a distraction as he withdrew his cock and whispered a spell down her spine. The book they'd bought had not only been great at helping them communicate better, but they'd found a little fun list of spells in the appendix, one that provided lubrication was the first that Harry memorised—just for a special occasion. Like now.

His fingers slipped inside of her first as they had a few times before, and the spell certainly helped ease things, but she groaned beautifully regardless.

"Oh my God, oh my God, Harry. Fuck me, please. Need you to do what you want to me." She pushed back against his fingers, stretching around them as she moaned.

"Merlin," Harry whispered, his eyes rolling just from her words. He licked the skin of her spine before biting down on the back of her neck, feeling thrilled when her body shuddered. "And you say that I talk dirty."

Being as careful as he could, especially since he couldn't see well due to the water obscuring things—that and he'd set his glasses on the floor by their clothes—but taking his time, Harry took himself in hand and guided the tip of his cock inside of her, replacing his fingers.

With just the tip inside, he asked, "You okay?"

She was panting and took a few moments to reply, but when she did, it was as she shifted toward him, sliding another inch of his cock into her arse as she said, "Bloody marvellous. So fucking full. Feels like you could split me open. God, Harry,"—another inch—"please start moving."

Harry bit down on his lip and thought he almost tasted blood. He needed to buy her a gag, she was going to wreck him. He grabbed her hips firmly to stop her from backing up further, because this was a goddamned first, and he was close to losing it completely.

Taking a shaky breath, he slowly began to pull out. And her body clenched down on him so hard, he saw stars.

"Oh _shit_. More. Do it again, Harry, _please_."

"Oh fuck," Harry groaned and bit her neck again reproachfully. Slowly pushing back in, Harry took a shaking hand and reached around her body, rubbing around her clit as he pulled out again. He wasn't going to last if he picked up the pace—which he desperately wanted to do.

This time, her words weren't even coherent, and the sound of her hoarse pleas and gasps were only making things harder.

"Come on sweetheart," Harry said, repeating the motions exactly, but this time giving her clit a little pinch as he thrust back in. "Come for me so I can fuck you proper."

She screamed as she came, and as he kept his fingers firmly on her clit, he felt her warm, slick arousal coat them, making it hard for him to grip her as she pulsed and he could feel her goddamn heartbeat against his fingertips.

Or at least, he would have, had his entire attention not been drawn back to his cock and the bloody vice that her body had created around it. He felt his shoulders tense and a warmth pool at the bottom of his spine, and the very moment that she went lax against him, Harry pressed his fingers into her sensitive cunt, and began to slowly fuck her arse in earnest.

It didn't take long, not with her words and her moaning doing half the work earlier, and Harry felt a bit of an ego boost when the flutter of a second little orgasm ripped through her just as he spilled himself inside of her, so deep he could feel her clenching at the base of his cock.

"Fuck," he said, breath heavy as he placed a kiss to her shoulder blade. "Are you all right?"

Her head was resting against the tile beside the bath, her cheek pressed to the floor as her whole body seemed to shake with her deep, uneven breaths.

"Per . . . fect." She pushed back against him, sending a shock of pleasure straight to his oversensitive cock, and he cried out a little in surprise. She giggled.

"You're a menace," he said, scolding her with another little bite, this time to her shoulder which was already covered in pretty little marks. Slowly, and before she could do something else, Harry pulled his softened cock from her body, relishing the little whimper she gave him.

"Mmm. Sorry," she said, sounding not even a little apologetic.

"You will be," he teased. "Do you need anything?" He'd been extra careful with her after sex once he'd read a chapter detailing something called 'subspace'. Brushing the hair back from her face, he took a good look at her eyes.

"More cock?"

"You're an addict," he accused playfully, and then he kissed her cheek sweetly, and thought ' _I love you'_ in his head—a secret just for him.

"Maybe," she murmured. She hadn't moved from her spot there at the side of the bath, but he could see her arching her back experimentally. "But whose fault is that?" And then she turned her head just enough that she could wink in his direction.

"Yours," he said, turning her fully around and into his arms before kissing her passionately. When he broke from her, gasping a little for breath, Harry smiled. "If every part of you wasn't so perfectly sweet, I'd keep my cock right in my pants."

Her pretend pout was almost enough to make him hard again, especially when she paired it with that 'fuck me, Harry,' smirk and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his face down just enough that he was given an expansive view of her breasts. The rings she'd chosen at the piercing shop still shone brightly, reminding him he hadn't paid them any attention in at least the last half hour.

"What about these?" she said, "Are they sweet too?"

"Mmm," Harry groaned, licking his lips. "So sweet that I plan on sucking them while I finger you later tonight. But," he said, pulling back before she could seduce him further. "We promised Ron and Lavender we'd go with them to Hogsmeade."

This time, Hermione's groan wasn't the sexy kind.

"Don't want to," she said, "I'd rather stay here and jump ahead to the fingering."

"Man can't live off of sex alone," Harry declared with a laugh. "I need butterbeer too."

* * *

Going to Hogsmeade had seemed like a good idea. Harry was in the mood for lunch and a butterbeer at the Broomsticks and then maybe a little shopping. It was nice to get out of the castle, especially since he'd gotten too comfortable being essentially rule-free during the Christmas hols—not that he wasn't breaking plenty of rules by having sex with Hermione in all sorts of hidden places in the castle.

So getting out had definitely seemed like a good idea.

Until the first camera flash went off.

Harry had sucked in a breath, gripped Hermione's waist with one hand and his wand with the other.

And then Ron had gone bloody mental, literally chasing after the reporter . . . barking at them like a lunatic. When he came back, looking smug and dusting his hands off on his trousers, he cleared his throat and said, "What? Are they actually going to print that famous war hero, Ronald Weasley chased them while barking?"

Harry's eyes widened in delight. "Oh my god, I can just act completely mental and as long as they don't get a photograph, I can do anything, can't I?"

Hermione looked reproachfully at the both of them.

"Honestly, you two. We are actually _adults_ now."

"I'm going to buy a panda," Harry declared in reply.

"Oh, those are cute," Lavender said with a smile as she took Ron's arm. "I think that's illegal, though. Even if you're Harry Potter."

"Yes, thank you," said Hermione, giving Lavender a smile of her own and then turning back to Harry. "Besides, if you think I'm up for taking care of an exotic animal, you've another thing coming."

"Well, then I'll buy a—" Harry began to say but was caught off when there was a bit off a fuss being caused at the broom shop around the corner. Groaning, he stepped back in an attempt to avoid any other reporters catching sight of him. "Shit."

"Not everything's about you," Ginny said as she came up to them from around the corner with Pavati at her side. Parvati shared a silent hello with Lavender, both smiling and looking like they were communicating telepathically the way long-term friends could sometimes do.

Harry glanced down, noticing that Ginny was holding Parvati's hand.

He looked at Ron and tried to communicate telepathically.

Ron did not receive the message.

"So what's the commotion?" Ron asked his sister, gesturing at the growing crowd. "I swear a bloke can't even get a bloody beer without there—Hey, are you sleeping with girls now?"

Harry sighed and leant his head on Hermione's shoulder.

"I think they're very nice together, Ronald," Lavender said.

"Thanks, Lav," Parvati said with a smile and snuggled into Ginny's side.

Ron's face had gone completely red. However, unlike the shade of red he turned when he got angry, this was a particularly new colour reminding Harry of the Hogwarts Express's steam engine. Eventually, when Ginny met Ron's stare with a scarily daring one of her own, Ron broke and turned to Lavender. "Didn't you and Parvati used to—?"

"Don't ask questions," Harry advised him quietly. "Just . . . let it be."

"What is the ruckus about then?" asked Hermione, sidestepping the awkwardness entirely and directing her question toward the girls. "Is there a new model of Firebolt or . . ." she paused as if she were trying to think of another type of racing broom, and then she shrugged.

"No," Harry said. "The new model isn't out—"

"Not out until next year, 'Mione," Ron said, still staring at his sister. "Oi! You can't just go sleeping with my girlfriend's ex-girlfriend!"

"Why not?" Ginny demanded. "Your ex-girlfriend is sleeping with my ex-boyfriend."

"Please leave me out of this," said Hermione cheerfully, and then she added, "Is it a book-signing then?" As if a book-signing were the most exciting thing she could think of.

"Merlin, you're such a prude, Ronald," Ginny accused. "I'm writing home to George."

"Then I'll write him first and say you're dating my girlfriend's ex!"

Ginny scoffed loudly. "For fuck's sake, do you have to always get involved in my sex life? First, it was a huge deal because I fucked Harry, and now it's a huge—"

Harry grabbed Hermione's hand. "Let's just go see if it's a book-signing."

They were halfway to the crowd before they heard an echo of "—liar! He told me you were still a virgin! And no, I _don't_ care that Parvati is better at it!"

"There's a story there, I take it?" Hermione sounded amused as he pulled her along toward the broom shop.

Harry laughed, pulling her close and wrapping an arm around her shoulders, not caring if a photographer caught them in a moment of happy affection. He had zero plans of pinning her against any walls today—at least in Hogsmeade. "Don't ask. Ron's just way too invested in his sister's—Krum?"

Blinking, Harry looked across the road at the entrance of the broom shop where Viktor Krum was standing with a gaggle of girls circling him—several boys too, all with Quidditch merchandise in hands, begging for autographs.

The man paid them all very vague attention, signing a few things here and there and posing with a bleak smile for photographs. He looked bored. That was until—

"Viktor!"

Harry blinked again in shock and looked at Hermione. She was smiling, bright and wide and _genuine_ as she waved toward Krum and pushed up onto her toes so that she could be seen beyond the crowd.

"Hermoninny?"

Hermione laughed, giving Harry another happy little smile as Krum waded through the group of people toward them. "He always had trouble with my name," she said, but she didn't sound annoyed at all, only affectionate.

"I remember," Harry said. It used to bother her, he recalled.

He'd never had much of a problem with Krum—that had been Ron. And he'd never felt jealous when it came to Hermione. Not even her little fantasy that involved Neville watching them bothered him. He found it a little adorable. But he felt like he was fighting every single day to win her honest affections and not just her friendship and a plethora of orgasms, so the happy way that she smiled at another man—an ex-boyfriend—had something sour stirring in his stomach.

"I did not know that you would be here," said Krum in his thickly accented English when he reached them, and the bored look he'd sported earlier had dissipated, replaced by a pleased expression.

"It's a Hogsmeade weekend," said Hermione. "I thought you were going to be in Bulgaria until the summer?"

Caught off guard, Harry looked at Hermione in confusion. He hadn't known that she and Krum were still writing one another.

"I was, but Cleansweep wanted me here for a release. It was late notice or I would have sent you an owl."

"Well _that's_ a shame," Harry said a little too loudly, and then stepped a little in front of Hermione with one hand held out to Krum, the other secure around Hermione's shoulders. "Krum. Good to see you."

"Potter," Krum said with a smile—stiffer than the warm one he'd given Hermione, but genuine-looking all the same. He took Harry's hand. "I was glad to hear you were well after the war. Good to know you looked after Hermo—" He stopped, fought a little grin and then correctly, but slowly, said, "Hermione."

Harry huffed a little at the correct pronunciation. "Well, Hermione is great at looking out for herself, but I was happy that she was with me." His arm moved from Hermione's shoulders to around her waist.

"Were you? I tried to get her to come to Bulgaria before things got bad, but she would not hear of it. I'm glad her sacrifice was appreciated."

Beside him, Hermione shifted a little.

"I couldn't possibly have gone," she said lightly. "Besides, everything turned out right in the end."

Harry thought of the absolute horror that was Hermione having gone to bloody Bulgaria instead of hunting Horcruxes with him. Sure, she never would have been tortured by Bellatrix or nearly starved to death in a tent on the run, but he wasn't stupid enough to ignore the fact that it was her brains that won them the damned war. Without her, they'd have known nothing about the Hallows. Without her, they'd never have gotten into—or out of—Gringotts.

"That's right," Harry said, stepping back and pulling her against him. "Everything turned out right in the end."

Krum looked them over curiously before smiling a little. "You did not tell me this," he said to Hermione, gesturing to her and Harry. "I am happy for you both."

Was Hermione _blushing_ now? What the hell was happening? She'd been writing to Krum but hadn't mentioned him?

"Thank you, Viktor," she said softly, and then she brightened up again in another instant. "Oh! I had something for you! I was going to send it next week for your birthday, but if you're going to be here much longer, I can run back to the castle and grab it now."

Krum shook his head. "I am only scheduled for another fifteen minutes, I am afraid, and then I floo to Diagon Alley."

Hermione looked only a little disappointed, and then she shrugged. "Oh well then. Owl it is."

"Oh well," Harry repeated. "We should probably let Krum get back to his fans."

Hermione glanced up at him, her brows knitting briefly together before the look seemed to disappear and she turned back to the Quidditch player.

"He's right," she said. "I didn't mean to monopolize your time. It's just so _good_ to see you again."

Harry caught her tone of voice. She'd said that on purpose to rile him up. He glared at Krum, the motherfucker. It was working. Sure Krum had done nothing wrong, ever, to Harry, and was generally a very polite person if a little standoffish, but . . . _still_. International Quidditch star.

Krum gave Hermione another of his _real_ smiles, and then reached out and put a hand on her shoulder before _leaning in_ and _kissing_ her bloody cheek.

_"You're the only one I want to touch me."_ Harry could hear Hermione's voice echo in his head as he watched the two.

"It is always good to see you," he said, and then he retreated from striking distance. "Perhaps the two of you will come to visit me in Troyan soon?"

"I would love to," said Hermione. She was avoiding his gaze now, keeping it focused entirely on Krum. "I haven't made plans for this summer yet. You know what? I'll owl you."

Harry's shoulders tensed with every word out of her mouth, but he smiled stiffly at Krum, waiting for the man to leave.

"I will wait for it," said Krum, nodding in both of their directions, then giving Hermione another grin and a _wink_ before he turned back to the crowd of still clamouring fans.

Swallowing every emotion he wanted to shout, Harry blinked as a camera flash went off. He just knew that he and Krum would be the focus, and Hermione caught in the middle again. Still, to prevent any further attention, he looked at her, trying to gauge her current emotions and mindset with a glance, hoping that he did better at telepathically communicating with her than he had with Ron.

_Pissed off?_ he silently asked her.

Hermione arched a single brow back at him.

Nodding with an exhale, Harry asked, "Castle?" knowing that they couldn't very well air their dirty laundry here in the middle of the village with a herd of reporters and cameras lurking around.

"I wouldn't be able to get the gift back in time anyway," said Hermione, and there was a hard glint in her eye. "But that's very sweet of you to offer, Harry."

His nose twitched. "I hadn't been thinking of that," he said tightly. "I was thinking that perhaps we could have a private conversation. About your quill pal and the fact that he had no idea that you had a boyfriend."

Hermione's eyes had narrowed now, and both of her hands were on her hips as she stared up at him.

"I'll owl you," she said, and then she turned and headed out of the shop.

Fuming, but trying so hard to not cause a scene or even gain the attention of the reporters that had, thankfully, not seen Hermione walk away from him, Harry made his way back up the high street, determined to just go back to the castle to try and cool off.

He ran into Ron and Lavender on his way. The left side of Ron's face was swollen from what Harry knew all too well was a Stinging Hex, and Lavender was running her fingers through his hair as they walked.

"Take it things went well with Ginny?" Harry asked.

Ron huffed, rubbing his face, and narrowed his eyes a little at Harry in reply.

"Where's Hermione?" Lavender asked, changing the subject.

Clearing his throat, Harry said, "Just doing some shopping. We said we'd meet back up later."

And with that, and thankfully no follow up questions, Harry quickly darted back up the path to Hogwarts . . . secretly hoping to run into Zacharias Smith on the way.

Because he really wanted to punch something.

* * *

Hermione had always had a bit of a temper.

Her mother had tried to help her overcome it, but Helen Granger had been the one to _give_ her the bloody thing in the first place, so it had been a doomed task from the start. Not that Hermione normally minded. Her temper could be a good thing. It meant she wasn't often walked over. It meant she was good at voicing her opinions and good at getting her way . . . but today, it probably meant she was going to have to do a good deal of apologizing.

Hermione knocked at the door where she'd been standing for the last several minutes.

Whatever was coming, whatever argument she'd flounced off to avoid in Hogsmeade, it was probably just best to get it over with.

Yes, Harry had been a jealous, overreaching buffoon with Viktor . . . but also . . . she probably _could_ have mentioned she still owled the man.

Relationships were complicated.

After another few seconds of silence, Hermione sighed and opened the door.

"Funny," Harry said when she walked into his bedroom, "you don't _look_ like an owl."

He sat on the edge of his bed, fully dressed except for his shoes which had been kicked into the corner of the room. His hands rested on his knees, and his shoulders slumped forward. He'd clearly been like this for a while—deep in thought. Hermione felt instantly, hideously guilty.

Still, she had her pride.

"I thought this might be quicker," she said, closing the door behind her and locking it wandlessly before crossing her arms and leaning back against the wide expanse of dark wood. "Unless you're ready to apologise?"

His eyes widened. "Please be joking right now."

She swallowed.

"I—You were heavy-handed and _rude_ to my friend," she said, repeating aloud the offence she'd been convincing herself all afternoon was bad enough to warrant her storming off

"I was rude," Harry acknowledged, "to your _ex-boyfriend_." He paused and let out a quick exhale of irritation. "Who didn't even know that we were dating even though you have, apparently, still been writing to him."

Hermione could feel her pulse in her neck and her stomach turned over.

"He's my _friend_ ," she repeated. "We write to one another once a month, and there isn't anything wrong with that."

"Him being your _ex_ is not my issue, Hermione," Harry snapped at her. "You and Ron dated last summer. Hell, I eat three meals a day sitting next to _my_ ex-girlfriend. But she knows that I'm in a _relationship_. With _you_. Happily," he said, looking . . . not so happily.

She almost felt guilty.

Almost.

"I wasn't hiding it," she huffed. "It's not as if I haven't mentioned you in my letters. I just haven't delved into my sex life with him. Or are you trading stories with Ginny about what we do in the privacy of our rooms?"

He looked at her in disbelief.

"Right. _Sex life_ ," he said, shaking his head and looking just . . . tired. He looked tired. "Well, then, my deepest apologies for my rude behaviour." His voice was empty, devoid of all emotions other than . . . something she couldn't quite place. "And no, I don't tell Ginny about our _sex life_. She knows that you're my girlfriend." He let a pregnant pause linger in the air. "But I shouldn't have been rude to Krum. He didn't do anything wrong."

_Girlfriend_.

It wasn't the first time he'd called her that.

In the past, she'd always assumed it was because that _one_ word was simpler than the many, very complicated words it would take to describe what existed between them. " _She's my friend I care very much for and like to spank until she's orgasmic but won't be spending the rest of my life with because she has serious issues and is a book worm control freak who doesn't know how to let herself be loved,_ " was accurate, but not the sort of thing one could say to clerks or, apparently, ex-boyfriends.

But _that_ was the word he seemed stuck on. It was as if he were trying to say something to her, and whether she was just dense or being purposefully oblivious, she didn't know.

"I—"

She couldn't think how to finish the sentence, because that bloody word was still rattling around in her head.

"I'm sorry I left you there," she said because she really was sorry and she couldn't think of anything else to say that wouldn't make her sound stupid and confused and desperate, and " _What do you mean when you say 'girlfriend'?_ Was too dangerous a question.

And then, because that horrid _guilt_ had taken up residence in her chest, and because she was feeling very out of sorts, she asked, "What can I do to make it up to you?"

He got a look in his eye. A familiar look that she'd come to identify as his Dominant expression. However, instead of it being reactive and inquisitive, it looked like it was something he was purposely putting on, like a uniform.

And when he said, "Take off your jeans and lay across my lap," it sounded like he was doing it for her instead of for him. And wasn't that the whole point? Wasn't that why this all started? For _him_?

A piece of her wanted to argue, to tell him he didn't need to do things for her, that she didn't need to be indulged or humoured . . . but she could never say no to him. Could never _want_ to say no.

Doing as she was told lifted a weight from her. She wasn't sure where it had been resting, but as it receded she felt a sob try to bubble up through her chest and she choked it back.

"Like this?" she asked, wearing only her t-shirt and knickers, socks still on her feet as she draped herself over Harry's lap, balancing on the tops of his thighs and dropping her hands to the floor.

She could feel him trace his fingers over the top of her knickers before pulling them down, exposing her skin.

His palm rubbed against one cheek and then the other before he said, "You've got a smart mouth, you know."

Why did that make her want to cry?

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Harry whispered. "I love how quick-witted you are."

And then he lifted his palm and let it fall down on her with a sharp _smack_!

"And I know you do it on purpose. Because you want this."

_Smack_!

"Don't you?"

"Y—"

_Smack_!

"Yes!"

"God, you're so pretty." _Smack_! "Even when you're in a strop." _Smack_! "No wonder Krum smiled at you like that. Who wouldn't? You're gorgeous."

_Smack_!

She felt something wet on her face. She didn't give a damn about Viktor. Didn't give a shit if he'd smiled at her. Hadn't felt his lips on her cheek when he'd said goodbye to her. He didn't _matter_. Not the way Harry did. And suddenly, _horrifyingly_ , she wondered if he had thought _he_ didn't matter to her either.

And it was unfair. He had no _right_ to think that, to be upset by the prospect of it. He wasn't _for_ her, and so he could hardly expect her to—

"I was jealous," Harry was whispering between smacks on her arse. "Stupid of me. They should all be jealous of me." _Smack_! "Because they don't get this." His hand rubbed her skin gently, making the sting left behind from the smacks burn deliciously. "They don't get to come home and crawl in bed next to _you_."

_Smack_!

"Merlin, if they only knew how lucky I—"

"It's not fair!"

She didn't know where the words came from, or when she'd decided to say them aloud, or why she sounded like she was in tears.

She'd not said their safe word, but Harry stopped, all the same, his hands lifted from her body entirely.

"Hermione?"

She moved her hands from the floor, wrapping her arms around one of his calves and clinging to it with her eyes shut tight as her arse burned and cool air swept over every heated inch.

"You don't—you shouldn't get to—" She was gasping every few words, and it felt like her thoughts were gasping too, like they couldn't stay on track. "And then you get jealous—and that's not fair!"

"Sit up," Harry demanded, putting his hands back on her skin to help her. "You need to breathe."

But she didn't want to breathe. She wanted her damned mind to slow down. She wanted to make sense of the words and the feelings swirling around inside of her.

She let him help her up, scrunched her eyes tight as he pulled her knickers back up over her hips before sitting her beside him.

"I didn't mean to get . . ." Harry began to say but then stopped and asked, " _What's_ not fair?"

"What do you mean when you say I'm your girlfriend?" She couldn't stop the question any more than she'd been able to stop the mountain troll in their first year. It bubbled out of her mouth like a potion from a cauldron.

He blinked, clearly shocked by the question.

"Look, I know we . . . When we first . . ." Harry sighed and raked his hand through his hair in obvious frustration, but she didn't give him another chance to speak.

"It's not fair for you to call me that," she said. Her eyes were stinging and her throat was swollen and her face was almost as hot as her bottom. "You don't— _I'm_ not the girl you end up with. I'm for _now_ but not for later. This is—this whole fucking thing was because we needed a distraction, but It's not fair for you to say I'm your _girlfriend_ and act like it _means_ something, when you don't really want me."

Harry stared at her, looking completely bewildered and torn up by every word that left her mouth. "I _want_ you."

"No." Why couldn't he understand? Why couldn't he see what she was trying to say?

"I want _you_."

"It's temporary! You wanted temporary!"

"Hermione, you're my best friend," he said firmly as he stood, pacing back and forth in front of the bed. "And I _love_ you."

Somehow, that declaration from him again only made her want to cry more.

"I love you too," she said because she had _always_ said it. _Would_ always say it. And she wished as she said it that it meant now what it had _always_ meant. "But you—We have to remember that we love each other, but that what we have isn't—I won't trap you just because I'm the first girl you really fancied fucking and—"

"For fuck's sake," Harry mumbled, reaching for her hands and pulling her to her feet until she was facing him.

He took her face gently in his hands, his eyes looking half-crazed.

"I. Love. You."

"Stop saying that like it means something!"

"Goddamnit, Hermione, I'm in love with you!"

Harry's voice echoed off the walls.

His chest rose up and down with every breath.

He looked desperate to kiss her.

Hermione burst into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We know, we know. But never once did we say this was a fluffy fic. Also, please keep in mind that PTSD is tagged in the fic and it's currently been less than a year since the end of the war and less than 6 months since they even started sleeping together. These two have a lot of healing to get through. BUT GOOD NEWS! If you'll look, we now have an official chapter end date in sight! Yes, we have completed the writing portion of the story (now in editing mode) so the updates should come at least twice a week from now on.
> 
> We love you all and hope everyone is staying safe out there ♥


	23. Chapter 23

There was a weightlessness to his chest now. The pressure of the secret he'd been hiding no longer pushed down on his sternum, and he'd felt the peace of it for an entire week.

But the pressure of his secret love for Hermione had been replaced by something else that he couldn't give a name to.

Despite telling her that he was in love with her, she had not said it back. Harry hadn't assumed that she would, especially given the context of the way _he'd_ told _her_ , but he had expected . . . _something_. An apology maybe following a long-winded explanation of how she could only ever love him as a friend and this was just sex and, sure, he understood that it was his own stupid brain thinking it up, but there was a small part of him that wondered if she'd just laugh at him with his heart on his fucking sleeve.

She hadn't, of course. She never would have. Stupid brain.

She'd _cried_ instead.

She'd cried in his arms and let him kiss her hair and rub her back until she'd quieted, and then with a soft goodnight and a kiss to the corner of his mouth, she'd left.

The morning after, Harry had waited for her outside of her room, and she'd joined him as though the night before hadn't happened. There was a tension in her shoulders that hadn't been there before, and she'd clearly not slept well, but she said nothing.

So Harry, not one to _ask_ for his heart to be broken, had gone along with her . . . pretending he'd never said a thing.

But then something strange happened.

She still flirted, still hinted, and she still let her eyes sparkle at him and let him tease her with whispers in between classes.

But then nothing else.

Hermione would find reasons to not meet him in their favourite dark alcoves or in the prefect's bathroom. Hell, he'd tried to provoke her by mentioning that he could go and clean up the Chamber of Secrets so that they could _really_ let loose seeing as no one else (except Ron, should he even think to go looking) would even suspect them down there. Her cheeks had visibly warmed over, turning a delicious shade of pink, and she'd pressed herself against him in the corridor, licking her lips and looking like she wanted him to just bend her over right there.

And then an hour later, she'd kissed him on the cheek and said goodnight.

He didn't know what the fuck was happening.

She didn't love him—wasn't _in_ love with him, that much was certain. And hell, if she wanted him just for the stress release of sex, then Harry was fine with that so long as she didn't come right out and tell him that he wasn't worth loving. But now . . . he didn't know what she wanted. He might have assumed they'd gone right back to being just friends had she not still winked at him from across the common room and let him kiss her on the mouth in passing.

It wasn't that he even missed the sex.

Okay, that was a lie. He _really_ missed the sex.

But he missed being open with her more.

She had walled off a part of herself from him, and he could see the wheels in her head turning when she smiled his way and then looked in another direction. It felt like an act. She was still playing the part but thinking of something else.

If she was thinking of permanently ending things, fuck, Harry just wanted the plaster ripped off.

The waiting was goddamned torture.

By the time Friday rolled around, Harry was pent up again. He'd not started a fight like he'd done at the start of the year, but he had smarted off to Professor Sprout, and anyone who'd ever once thought that Hufflepuffs were doormats was educated quite well that afternoon. Harry had fallen over himself in apology for his bad attitude after a good scolding, and the sweet woman had given him a hug and a hard pat on the back and told him to shape up and he'd do just fine.

Sulking in the common room, Harry watched as his fellow eighth years came in and out, some disappearing into their private quarters. Neville, he'd seen in surprise, disappeared behind his door with a Slytherin that Harry couldn't recall the name of. It was a shocker because he'd been sure that something had been going on between Neville and Luna. Sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose, he wondered how long Ginny had been dating Parvati.

Was everyone obvious and he was just oblivious?

Had he just completely lost himself in Hermione and forgot to pay attention to everyone else he loved?

Soon Ron would show up having married Lavender in secret with a love child on the way, and Harry would have missed the whole goddamned thing.

"What crawled up your arse and Avadaed itself?"

Speaking of Ron . . . Harry looked up from his place on the one big armchair in the room, having secured it for himself an hour and a half earlier because he didn't want anyone else to even try to sit next to him. He liked to brood by himself, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, that hadn't deterred Ron, who had settled himself on the arm of a sofa several feet away, his arms crossed as he stared down his long nose at Harry.

"I'm fine," he lied.

In his own head, he might've gotten away with that too, but Zacharias Smith walked in the door to the common room with a younger Gryffindor, and the bloke just _looked_ at Harry.

"I swear to Merlin, keep walking away, you stupid little shit."

Ron arched a brow, peering behind him to spot Smith, and then rolling his eyes before looking back to Harry. "And I'm a pygmy puff. What's got your knickers in a twist? Beside's Smith existing."

"I hate that little twat," Harry muttered angrily. "Don't tell anyone, but I can't even remember why."

"Was he one of the blokes who flirted with Ginny?" Ron checked behind him again, but Smith had gone, disappearing beyond a doorway.

"Don't reckon," Harry said, bringing his hand up to his mouth to chew on his thumbnail in frustration. "Think it was something with the whole heir of Slytherin shit. Maybe he was a dickhead in Dumbledore's Army, I don't know. He probably wore one of those fucking Potter Stinks badged that Malfoy made."

"Huh." Ron turned his face back toward Harry. "And that's what has you all . . ." He waved a hand in Harry's direction and made a depressed-looking face before moaning aloud in a manner the Bloody Baron or Myrtle would have envied.

Sucking in a breath—and sucking up his broken pride—Harry quietly said, "I told Hermione I was in love with her."

"I'm sorry, you did _what_?" Ron's eyes had gone comically wide, and he nearly slipped off the arm of the sofa.

"A week ago," Harry bitterly added.

"Blimey." Ron rubbed his chin and over his mouth as if the confession were a lot to absorb. "And that went . . . poorly, I take it?"

Harry sighed and met Ron's stare. "She cried." And before Ron could comment on _that_ particular moment in Harry's life, he added, "And I'm talking like . . . 'first year, everyone thinks I'm a nightmare, and I have no friends, so let's go cry in a bathroom where a troll might find me' kind of crying."

"Merlin," said Ron. "I'm glad _I_ don't have that effect on women."

Recalling the amount of crying Hermione had done after Ron had abandoned them on the Horcrux hunt, Harry pinched his lips shut and said nothing in reply until he could manage a believable, "Well done, you."

"Look," Ron said, ignoring his comment, "Did you—? I mean, did you row beforehand or something? Sometimes girls just have a lot of feelings, I reckon. Maybe it wasn't because you told her you were . . . you know."

With something this important, Harry normally would have gone to Hermione for advice. But he clearly couldn't do that. And he trusted Ron. He didn't trust him so much to remain tactful, but to keep a secret, he couldn't think of anyone better.

Once Harry made sure everyone else was out of the common room, either off to bed, shagging one another behind closed doors, or revising elsewhere like Hermione supposedly was now, he looked at Ron and sighed.

"We weren't actually dating. We're _not_ ," he corrected, "actually dating."

There was the widening of eyes again.

"Beg pardon?"

Sitting forward and resting his elbows on his knees, Harry confessed it all—well, almost all.

"I don't even know how it started. Flirting, probably. But then it got . . . intense. She figured that maybe we could just . . . use each other to relieve stress." Though why she couldn't have figured that out in the middle of a war, Harry could never figure out—that would have been _loads_ helpful at the time.

"Use each other," Ron echoed as if he were having trouble believing what he was hearing.

"You all assumed we'd started dating, and I guess I did too. But Hermione apparently never did. So this whole time, I've just been falling in love with her, thinking of the future and how I'm a complete shit for not noticing that she had no plans for actually staying with me," he blurted out angrily. "So I told her I loved her, and she cried and didn't say anything back."

Ron sat there in stunned silence when Harry had finished, his mouth agape and his hands hanging limply at his sides. It took more than a few uncomfortable seconds before he managed to collect himself.

"You're daft if you think she doesn't love you back," he said, running a hand up and through his hair for a moment before leaning forward and settling his elbows on his knees.

Harry shook his head. "Just as friends."

"Bullshit, mate. Hermione loves _me_ as a friend, but she never did anything near as—I mean, she never even _looked_ at me the way I see her looking at you. It's like you're _Hogwarts a History_ in wizard form the way she eyes you."

He couldn't allow himself to think that way. "It's just . . . just sex. And now it's not even _that_."

"Harry, I saw her kiss you this morning. On the _lips_."

"Exactly!" Harry threw his hands up in the air. "She says nothing when I tell her I love her except to cry. And those weren't happy tears, mate. It was like I told her Crookshanks was dead all over again."

"Girls cry!" said Ron. "Lavender cried two days ago when I told her she was pretty. If a professor had come by they'd have thought I stabbed her. And I get it. She's been through a lot. And _Hermione_ 's been through a hell of a lot too."

Feeling bitter that he was clearly missing something that Ron had seemed to find so easily, Harry asked, "Did Lavender stop shagging you when you told her she was pretty and she cried over it?"

Ron blushed but had the decency to look at least a little contrite. "No," he confessed. "But she's not Hermione. Girl's aren't all chocolate frogs. They're every flavour beans. They're all just . . . different."

Slumping in his chair, Harry silently agreed with his friend with a lazy wave of a hand. "Something's wrong, though. I don't know how to fix it."

"Flowers?"

What little respect he'd recently had for Ron and his knowledge of witches plummeted instantly. He didn't even try to hide the incredulous expression he gave his friend.

"No? I dunno. A conversation then?"

"Tried," Harry said. "That's what _started_ the bloody thing. We've been talking for weeks on end about open communication ever since that night in the . . . Well, we've been talking."

Ron got a serious expression on his face, the same one he wore when he was looking at a particularly challenging game of chess.

"Hermione's always been . . . difficult. And I don't mean that in a _bad_ way . . . She just—Like with the ball fourth year. Or after I dated Lav the first time round. She gets in a strop and then . . . Well, she stays there for a while. Maybe she just needs time to figure herself out."

Harry thought about how Hermione had panicked months ago at the ball when Slughorn brought up her parents. She'd been different since the end of the war, sure, but they _all_ were. Harry had wanted to help her but had always assumed that Hermione knew how to help herself, and if she needed him, she'd just outright tell him what she needed. And _hadn't_ she? When he decided that he didn't trust himself to continue on with the kind of sex they'd been having, it was Hermione who'd said that she needed it. _She_ needed it.

But then why the distance?

"She'd been fine until I told her how I felt," Harry whispered, trying to put the pieces all together.

She was like an advanced potion. He was terrible at brewing.

Ron gave him a funny look.

"Hermione's not been _fine_ for a good while. When was the last time you saw her raise her hand in class? When was the last time she asked for any sort of attention? Aside from, you know, the kind _you've_ been giving her? None of us has been _fine_. Lav's not fine. Ginny's not fine . . . I'm not fine, come to that. We fought a fucking _war_ , mate. And now we're—what? Going to school again? Pretending it never happened?" He paused, hesitating as he looked down at his hands. "The mind healer said it's some sort of—trauma thing. We all have it. Some just hide it better." He shrugged. "At least that's what she says.

Harry sat there, letting Ron's words wash over him like a tidal wave of guilt. He knew it wasn't his fault. That Harry bloody Potter didn't start a war. It was Voldemort and the situations that the mismanagement of the Wizarding world had left open for blood purists to take advantage. Harry had been one little piece. One piece that had thankfully been able to put an end to the loudest problem, but still.

Then something else clicked in his head. "Mind healer? What mind healer?"

Ron's ears were red, and he didn't look back up to meet Harry's gaze as he answered.

"The one McGonagal brought on. Lav started seeing her a bit ago and asked me if I'd go too." He rolled his shoulders back, straightening his spine and looking upward toward the ceiling. "It's not bad."

Harry recalled something in his recent memory, but he rarely paid attention to school announcements unless it had something to do with class schedule or when N.E.W.T.s would take place. He was out of Hogwarts soon, so he figured why bother? That, and the first few weeks of after-meal announcements had been so focused on the war and what they'd all gone through, that he'd begun tuning them out entirely.

But now that Ron had brought it up . . . Harry _did_ remember something about the headmistress bringing on someone to talk to for those who needed it.

Another memory flashed in his mind though, and Harry felt himself go cold and sick to his stomach.

_"You see this, Petunia?" Vernon shouted, gesturing to the telly. "Lot of whinging children crying to a stranger about how they weren't hugged enough as a child. And the bloody government pays for it all too! I'd like to tell the lot of them what they can do with their crying—Oi! Boy! Don't you be eavesdropping! Get out and clean up the garden, or I swear, you'll not be going back to that freak school of yours, I don't care what they say!"_

Harry hadn't realised that he'd stopped breathing or that the colour had drained from his face until he felt Ron's hand on his shoulder. He looked up, blinking rapidly and inhaled a choking breath. "I don't want to talk to anyone," he said quickly. "I can't. They'd ask me all sorts of questions and . . ."

He thought about his childhood first of all. So few knew what had gone on beneath the stairs at Number Four. So few knew that stairs had any significance to him. Hell, the only reason Ron and Hermione knew was because Harry had let a few details out in random angry outbursts, and Ron had actually seen the bars on his bedroom window. Harry'd not discussed his childhood with the people closest to him, and he was supposed to tell those details with a perfect stranger?

Vernon was an idiot. But even if the man would never know it, Harry didn't want to seem like someone who just . . . cried for what was supposed to be nothing.

"All right, mate," said Ron, and he sounded not at all embarrassed now. "No one's gonna drag you."

Slowly, Harry felt the panic recede, and he let out a shaky exhale. "Maybe . . . You think maybe Hermione could use it, though?"

Ron didn't answer for a while, and when Harry risked a look up at him, it was to see his friend staring at him with his mouth open again before he jolted and blinked.

"Yeah," he answered. "I think we _all_ could. And Hermione—well, she lost more than a lot of people. Went through more. I—I still have nightmares sometimes. About what that hag did to her."

Harry nodded. He had those nightmares too.

"And when I think about all the things . . . the _people_ who are gone—She lost her parents like we lost Fred." Ron wasn't looking up at Harry now but down at his hands, settled palms up on the backs of his knees. Harry could see the faded scars on his friend's arm from the Department of Mysteries, shining silver in the light.

Harry said nothing. After the war was finally over, he had learnt all too quickly that apologising over Fred's death was a quick way to get scolded by every redhead he'd ever known. He knew they didn't blame _him_ even if he still struggled with it himself sometimes.

Reaching out, Harry took one of Ron's hands and squeezed it tight. "You know if I could go back and . . ." He stopped, sighed, and shook his head. "Does umm . . . that mind healer? She ever asked about how we did it?" He looked up, meeting Ron's gaze. "How we got rid of him for good?"

They'd all swore they'd take the secret of Horcruxes to their graves, and even the few books that had been left in their possession on the Dark Magic had been destroyed—by Hermione, of all people.

Ron shook his head. "I thought she might . . . but she just . . . lets you talk about whatever you want to. Doesn't pry. Loads more tact that anyone I've ever met before," he joked.

Nodding, Harry thought about bringing the subject up with Hermione later. He knew, of course, that she wasn't fine but had somehow hoped that whatever they were doing with each other could fix that. He wasn't fixed, so he wasn't sure why he had hoped _she_ would be.

"Do you think you could have done it?" Harry asked quietly. "Done what she did to save her parents?"

He'd thought on it when she had told them, and again when she found out that it couldn't be reversed. But Harry'd had no family, not like Ron and Hermione did. He'd sent the Dursleys away, sure, but that was with glad tidings and the understanding that he'd never see his aunt or uncle again. But his friends . . . they _loved_ their families. They were loved _by_ their families.

"I—" Ron looked like he wanted to answer, but didn't have the words. He swallowed. "Maybe I'd have done it," he answered at last. "I dunno that I'd have survived it, though."

And suddenly, for the first time that week, Harry realised that Hermione might not have been crying about _him_.

* * *

Instead of waiting for her in the common room like he'd been doing that whole week, if only to get a little flirting in to try and figure out what was going on with her, Harry said goodnight to Ron and went to his own bed.

There in the dark, what little light in the room only existed by a conjured jar of bluebell flames—a spell he'd learnt from Hermione years ago—Harry dug through his trunk. Hermione still had his father's cloak, and he'd not managed the courage to ask her about that just yet. But it wasn't the cloak he was looking for this time.

Eventually, he dug out the old moleskin pouch that Hagrid had given him long ago and reached inside, pulling out a piece of broken mirror. There was no one on the other end, but he knew that Sirius would have been had he still been alive. Swallowing down hard, Harry thought about his godfather and how he'd blamed himself for his death for years, even when he lied to his friends and said that he no longer did.

But Harry knew that logically _he_ hadn't been the one to cast that spell. _He_ hadn't pushed Sirius through the veil in the Department of Mysteries. _His_ wand wouldn't show traces of that magic.

_Hermione's_ wand, however . . .

It had been the instrument of her parents' salvation . . . and her own separation from them forever.

Harry squeezed the broken mirror in his hand tight, a longing in his gut that maybe if he held it hard enough, he could will the magic to bring his godfather back to him. But he knew it wouldn't. So after a few long minutes of staring into it only to see his own reflection looking back, he set it down on top of his things and closed the trunk before crawling back into bed.

He couldn't bring Sirius back, and he couldn't fix Hermione's parents for her.

But maybe Ron had taken the right path this time.

Maybe Harry could mention it to her the next time he—

There was a rustling of fabric nearby, a cloak dropping to the ground, and Harry felt a strange sense of relief that always came at the sight—or even lack thereof—at his father's cloak. It didn't bring him _half_ the relief he felt when he looked up to see Hermione. She was standing with one arm crossed over her middle, clutching the opposite elbow as she stared down at her feet. She was wearing pyjamas, dark blue and buttoned up to her neck. A few strands of her loose hair were caught there as if she hadn't noticed them while dressing.

"Hi," she said before he'd had a chance to really look his fill.

"Hey."

She shifted on her feet, still not looking directly at him. "It's Friday."

Right. Their rules. _His_ rules for _her_.

"I—I'm sorry. I know I've been . . . distant. I just—" She looked miserable. "I wasn't sure if you'd _want_ me to come."

"Hermione," Harry said, pulling the blanket back. "Come to bed."

She trembled at the words, and as she hopped onto the mattress beside him, rolling until her nose was pressed to his chest and he could feel her hair tickling his nostrils, he thought it was with relief.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I've missed you."

Harry slowly let out a heavy breath, feeling some part of him click in place the moment she snuggled against his chest. He thought hard about what he needed to do and say. He knew that he was often the embodiment of a Gryffindor: brave but reckless. And he rarely put thought into anything before his actions just took over for him, as though his feet knew the direction he should go come hell or high water even if his brain had been left out of the loop entirely.

Maybe that had served him well in the past—sometimes.

But not with her.

He ran his hand down her back soothingly, saying nothing. His fingers trailed back up her spine, squeezing her shoulders and feeling the tension still lingering there. Shifting back, Harry looked down at her, reaching and tilting her chin up with the tip of his index finger until she was looking right into his eyes.

Her skin practically glowed with the nearby firelight, but Harry did his best to keep control of himself. That was always what he wanted anyway, wasn't it? Control. With no dark look in his eyes and no purposeful tone in his voice giving her orders, he leant down and pressed his mouth to hers, feeling relief when she opened to him immediately.

It wasn't rough and hard like he'd been in the past or like he knew made her knees weak. But it also wasn't soft in the way she'd told him made her cringe a little. His kiss was strong, solid . . . a foundation of something that he put purpose behind.

"Mmm." The little sound was pure satisfaction, and he cherished it, but it was followed by her hand on his chest, pressing lightly as she pulled back to peer up at him.

"I'm really, _really_ sorry."

If she didn't stop apologising soon, Harry thought he might drag her to the mind healer himself.

"Stop," he whispered, kissing her chastely at the corner of her mouth. "You don't have to be here if you don't want to be," he added carefully.

Her eyes widened at that, and she looked almost hurt. "Do you not _want_ me to be?"

He could feel her growing stiff in his arms, feel the panic settling into her body.

"I _always_ want you," he confirmed with a calm voice, doing his level best to take care of her in whatever little ways he knew how.

"Oh." The declaration seemed to have mollified her because she lowered her face again, nuzzling against his neck and breathing deeply. "I want you too."

She said it so simply as if it were _known_ and required no further explanation, and it made Harry mental. She _wanted_ him? What did that _mean_? He wanted her next to him, touching his skin and existing in his space. He wanted her completely, but he wanted her even if she was sitting in the library with ink on her fingers and a quill in her mouth, seven books deep in Arithmancy that he was sure he'd never understand. He wanted her even when sex had nothing to do with it. He wanted _her_.

What did she want _him_ for?

His hand moved from her shoulder, slipping into the dip of her waist before settling on her hip. Testing the waters carefully, all the while remembering everything he'd talked to Ron about, Harry moved in slowly to kiss her again, waiting to see how she reacted, and then she _did_ react.

Enthusiastically. Emphatically. With her whole body.

She kissed him sweetly, but with such fervour that he knew in a moment it would be a kiss he'd remember till the day he died. She pressed herself against him, her chest to his, her thighs against his thighs, as her hand trailed upward, brushing his shoulder on its way to cup his cheek. There, her fingers fluttered against his skin before smoothing up to tangle in his hair as she breathed him in.

Harry rolled over, pinning her beneath the cage of his arms as he kissed her, drinking in her every little exhale. He didn't need her calling out his name in passion. He didn't need her screaming in ecstasy. He just needed her.

Even if she was wearing . . .

"Why are you—?" He sat back with a smile, looking down at her pyjamas which looked like they covered her from ankle to neck. "I've never seen these before," he said as he fingered the bottom hem of her dark blue top, silky to the touch.

If the light had been better, he was sure he'd have been able to see her flush, but as it was, it was her owlish blinking which gave her away.

"I transfigured them," she confessed on a whisper.

"What for?" he asked curiously.

"I didn't want you to think . . ." She frowned a little and swallowed before she got a determined look on her face. "Well, I didn't want you to think I was only here for sex."

It lightened his heart to hear her say it, but he'd been wrong before and had read into things that ultimately backfired, so Harry didn't comment or ask what she meant by that. Instead, he brushed some hair behind her ear and very earnestly said, "We don't have to do anything you don't want to."

He almost laughed when her eyes widened and she said, "No, I _want_ to. _Believe me_ , I want to. I just—I didn't want you to think that was all I . . . valued. About you. Us."

Sighing in relief but trying hard to not make it look that way, Harry nodded and smiled at her. Then, without another word, he leant his weight on one arm and used the other to reach out, plucking at the top button of her pyjama top. "This okay?"

She smiled, her straight white teeth gleaming. "Yes," she said. "But . . . _Finite_."

The modest pyjama set melted away, replaced by a short little nightgown of the same fabric and hue, and she looked self-conscious for a moment before she met his gaze and gave him a reckless little grin.

"Is _this_ okay?"

"You're beautiful no matter what you wear," Harry said firmly, having no other reaction to her shift in clothing.

Her flirtatious smile melted away, and then she was just staring at him as if he hung the moon. It made him remember what it had been like to get past the Horntail during fourth year; like instead of things accidentally working out, he'd just done something right from the start.

"Thank you, Harry," she said softly.

Sucking in a slow breath, completely resolved in his decisions, Harry said, "No more words. I don't want silence," he clarified, "but unless it's the safe word, you don't need to say anything."

And when he was sure his request had registered, he placed his hand back on her hip, dragging it down until the softness of her thigh settled in his palm. Licking his lips, he leant down and kissed her again, paying close attention to the way her body shifted against him. The way her knees pulled up, the way her thighs began to part, the way her back began to arch, pressing her breasts against his chest.

She said nothing, just as he'd asked, but she also sighed against him and made appreciative little sounds as his hands skated along the back of her thigh, up and down from the inside of her knee to the spot near the top he knew made her tremble. When he lingered there, she even gave him a moan, the kind that went straight from her lips to his cock.

Lifting her legs until both were thrown over his shoulder, Harry shifted his own pyjama bottoms down and then sneaked his hands along her hips until he took the lace of her knickers in hand, slowly dragging them down her legs until he needed to shift her again to remove them completely.

Before setting her feet back on the mattress, he placed a kiss to the inside of one ankle and then let her slowly open before him, her thighs sliding down, rubbing against his body like silk the whole way down.

Leaning forward, he kissed her again the moment that his hand reached between her thighs to circle her entrance, gauging just how ready she was for him. Merlin, how was it that she was always so beautifully wet for him? He slipped two fingers inside, curling them upward and rubbing slowly until her mouth trembled just so against his own.

"Oh—" she breathed, more a sound than a word as it left her mouth like a sigh of needy satisfaction.

Pulling his fingers from her body, Harry took himself in hand and stared down into her eyes just as he began rubbing the tip of his cock against her. Then, in a show of power, he whispered the contraceptive charm against her neck, letting his magic roll down her body until it settled.

Her hips rocked against his, sliding the head of his shaft between her slick folds as she moaned again.

"Remember," Harry said, panting with want of her, "no words. Promise me?"

She gasped, nodding frantically as she tilted her hips again and he felt himself slide over her clit. Her eyes nearly rolled back in her head at that.

With one hand slipping beneath her lower back to hold her to him, Harry used his other to slowly guide his cock inside of her. With every inch she took, he pulled her closer, lifting her off the bed until she was pressed right to his chest and he was as deep inside of her as he could be.

"H—Ha—-Fu—-."

"I love you."

Her mouth opened, and her eyes widened, clearly not having anticipated that. But he'd told her not to speak. He didn't need her saying it back and he didn't need her apologising for not being able to. He needed her to _know_.

"I love you," he said again as he pulled out and thrust back in, deep and hard like she liked it. He sat back on his heels, pulling her with him and angling her body so perfectly that when he thrust again, he knew he hit that perfect spot inside her because her eyes rolled back before they fluttered shut and she gasped as her fingernails dug into his back.

He kissed her hard as his hips continued to move. Grunting when he pulled away from her, Harry moaned and said, "I love you," against her lips.

"I love you," he said as he placed a hand on her hip to hold her tighter.

_I love you. You're mine. I'm not going anywhere._

"Oh God, Hermione," he groaned against her neck, breathing hard.

"L—" He thought he heard, but when he looked down, she was biting her lower lip, her eyes closed tight as she rocked against him.

_I love you. You're safe. I'm here._

"Sweetheart, you feel so good," he said, clenching his eyes shut as he felt the pressure inside of him building. But this wasn't for him. So he pushed one of his hands between them to stroke around her clit, just as he said, "I'm not letting you go. I love you. Come for me."

"Harry, I—I . . ." She looked panicked for a moment, her pupils blown wide as she clung to him and her whole body trembled . . . But then she was tumbling over the edge, her head thrown back as she climaxed so _beautifully_. Her nails dug into his shoulder blades, her whole body rippling and fluttering against him . . . around him _._

He bit his lower lip as the wave of her pleasure dragged him under, and he pressed his forehead against her sternum as he cried out his climax, his hips stuttering as he came inside of her.

Sweat dripping down his back, Harry sighed into her skin, kissing his way slowly back up to her jaw where his lips settled. He could taste salt on her skin, but before he could even begin to think about its origins, he felt one of her small hands smooth up from his shoulder to the back of his neck. There, she stroked the hairs at the nape before carding up and through them to cradle his head against her.

She took a breath as if she were about to say something . . . but no words came.

He didn't feel regret. Instead, he focused on _her_.

He looked back down and pressed his lips to the scar on her neck. Ron had been right. She loved him. She might not know it, and Harry certainly didn't know what to make of it since she clearly couldn't say so out loud, but she did.

Even when they were just friends, she'd loved him. And that had been an all-consuming love in itself. Maybe that's why it felt so intense now. She'd loved him enough to follow him into war. She loved him enough to attempt to follow him to his death. And yes, she was a Muggle-born and would have been fighting regardless, but when the Snatchers and Greyback had found them in that forest and they'd all began running for their lives . . . Hermione had used her magic to disguise _him_ when she could have easily disguised herself instead.

And the scar on her neck, plus many more, was just a reminder of how she loved him.

"Sleep with me?" Harry asked softly as he lowered her down to the mattress, hissing a little as he pulled out of her body before tucking himself back into his pyjamas.

"I'd . . ." A small hesitation, followed by her gripping his hand firmly in hers and giving it a squeeze. "I'd love to."

Smiling, Harry settled in next to her, leaving the blanket where it was at the foot of the bed because the room was blisteringly hot now, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. After a few minutes of listening to their breathing calm down, Harry asked, "Hermione?"

"Hmm?"

"I think we should go see that mind healer that McGonagall brought on."

For a while, she said nothing, she just clung to his hand and breathed into the darkness.

"Probably," she said, at last, the word so quiet that he barely heard it. And then . . . "Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't think I'm ready for that. I don't . . . I can't talk about it yet. Any of it."

He knew it was a long shot. So he kissed the side of her head with no hesitation and pulled her closer to him. "It's okay," he said. "I'll still be here whenever you can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise bonus chapter because we love you guys so much! ♥


	24. Chapter 24

He loved her. He was _in_ love with her.

It hurt.

Every time he said it, it was a special sort of hell.

She never wanted it to stop.

Because he _loved_ her. Was _in_ love with her. And he said it at every opportunity.

When he was sitting beside her in class. When he was coming inside of her. When he kissed her goodnight and sent her chastely off to bed. When he smacked her bottom and slipped his fingers in her arse to make her come obscenely hard. She didn't think a day had gone by since the night she crept back into his bed that he _hadn't_ told her . . . hadn't _shown_ her.

And she loved him back. Was _in_ love with him.

She knew that now, just as surely as she knew her name was Hermione, and her favourite book was _Hogwarts, A History_ , and her parents' names had been Richard and Helen Granger, and that they didn't exist anymore.

She knew it with a searing certainty that left no room for doubt.

She was in love with Harry Potter.

And he deserved better.

So, she did what any girl who was best friend to Harry Potter and loved him more than she could possibly describe would do. The hard thing. The _right_ thing.

She didn't tell him.

She almost had, that night in his bed, when he'd told her not to speak and then made her feel so fucking cherished she'd practically glowed with it. It had been on the tip of her tongue, echoing in her mind every time he'd said it, every time he'd touched her. She hadn't been able to lie to herself with his body on hers and his eyes so sincere and his words so _perfect_. It had been all she'd been able to do to stay quiet.

And every day since then, every single moment of time they'd spent together for the last month . . . it was sweet torture.

But she loved him, loved him too much to let him throw away that same precious commodity on her. So she stayed quiet. She let her heart sing the words in her chest but bit her tongue when they threatened to spill out.

Which was often.

After breakfast. On the banks of the lake. In the common room with their friends sitting feet away. The whole school was filled with memories of his sweet declarations now. Every corner she looked in, every seat she passed . . . they all testified of the truth of Harry's words. They all accused her. Because Harry didn't just _say_ he loved her, he acted on it.

Their play—the aspect of their relationship that had seemed so necessary to her after their mishap in the abandoned classroom on the third floor—had evolved. It was more than bonds and smacks and bites and delicious mastery now. It was unspeakable, delicious control turned inward in a way Hermione had never expected of Harry. Once, she had thought the control he'd needed in sex was over her. She knew better now. It wasn't about controlling her, it was about _caring_ for her. It was about giving her what she needed and making sure she was safe throughout. It was about the way he loved her.

It was more than she deserved.

But she loved him.

And though she knew in the secret parts of her soul that she was unworthy . . . she couldn't bring herself to turn him away. She wasn't strong enough. Not for that. She was selfish and weak and wanted him more than was wise. Wanted not just the things he did to her in the dark of night and under the bright noon sun . . . but she wanted _him_. Wanted his smiles and his teasing and the way he frowned over potions when they brewed together. She wanted him grinning as he ran his fingers through his hair and scowling at Zacharias Smith and looking gobsmacked when Ginny said something outrageous.

She wanted everything . . . The future he could see so clearly when he looked at her . . . The freedom that seemed to have come over him when he told her how he felt . . . Sometimes, she could almost taste it. It hung just out of reach, ephemeral and opalescent all at once. Fragile. _Torture_. She could see it some days, see their whole future spread out like a feast, tempting and so beautiful she wanted to reach out and touch it. There was a heap of nights spent together in a bed they shared. Beside it, a goblet filled with silly arguments they only had so they could make up later. To the left, children and careers and a life so _brimming_ with love she ached.

She'd almost dared to reach for it more times than she could count. She'd almost said those five little words that she knew she'd never be able to take back . . . But every time she'd imagined it—every time she'd begun—she'd seen two faces flashing like neon signs in her mind, reminding her of her failings . . . of her sins.

She could see her parents even now as Harry walked beside her, a jaunt in his step and a twinkle in his eyes. His hair was mussed and there was colour in his cheeks, and his tie was draped over his neck, untied.

Slowly making their way back toward the eighth year dormitories, they both gave a polite nod of greeting to Dennis Creevey as they passed, and just when Dennis was out of sight, Harry grinned and spun Hermione into his arms, lifting her up and letting her legs drape over his forearm as he laughed.

The sound was infectious, and despite her malaise, Hermione felt her lips tilt up at the corners.

"What is it?" she asked, hooking both arms around his neck and clasping her fingers.

"Nothing," Harry said with a grin. "Was just thinking that this is how it always should have been. This year, or well, most of it. It's exactly as Hogwarts always should have been for us."

She let herself imagine it as Harry carried her down the corridor, her cheek pressed above his beating heart and her eyes closed. If _he_ had been the one to ask her to the Yule Ball fourth year instead of Viktor . . . would she have said yes? She thought so. They would have danced together—he might have stepped on her toes, but she'd have laughed and carried on. Would he have walked her back to her room? Would he have held her hand and given her a chaste kiss on the cheek? And after that, would things have changed between them? Would he have been kissing _her_ in the Room of Requirement fifth year? Could they have walked hand in hand together through the halls, and kissed in the common room, and had _this_ before it had all become so complicated?

"It would have been lovely," she murmured against his shirt.

"Well," he said, his face pressed against the top of her head. "It's good now." Then, after taking a deep breath and letting out what sounded like a sigh of relief, he added, "And I think it'll be good going forward. Hogwarts healed up pretty well—" as they passed by a corner where the new stone differed in colour from the centuries-old portion of the wall that hadn't been destroyed "—and I think I want to do the same with Grimmauld Place. It's not enough to just clean the place. I think we should remodel some of it when we go home."

She could picture that, too. The townhouse was hidden behind enchantments that meant they wouldn't have to conform to any Muggle ordinances. They could put in more windows, tear down walls . . . bring in more light. She wondered whether Bill might be able to take another look at the portrait of Walburga that still hung there behind the permanent sticking charm. Could it be removed completely?

"There's too much wallpaper," she said as they approached her door. "The whole place could use some fresh, clean paint."

"Sounds like a plan," Harry said as he spun her around in his arms before dipping her—regardless of the fact that they were not dancing. He kept on smiling until both of their book bags fell off their shoulders in the change of position, clattering to the ground.

"Shit," he muttered. "I've got it."

And with Hermione still in his arms, Harry bent low in an attempt to gather up all the books and both bags. The effort was completely futile and ended up with him tipping over, sending them both sprawling to the ground.

Even with an obvious book shoved up under his back, Harry kept laughing.

A few other eighth years walked past, staring at them as though they'd been Confunded or perhaps hit with a sneaky Cheering Charm.

"Move along," said Hermione from her place beside Harry on the ground. She was grinning broadly now and feeling a lightness in her chest she couldn't quite explain. "Budge over."

Harry rolled onto his back with a heavy exhale, spreading his arms out wide and closing his eyes. "By all means, Miss Granger. I'm at your mercy. Do what you will with me."

She collected the book he'd been lying on top of, and with a wave of her wand sent it and its cohorts zooming back neatly into their respective bags. Sitting up now, she scooted until she was right above Harry, her hand beside his face on the ground as she looked down to study him. He seemed carefree. Happy. It was a good look on him.

Before she could overthink it, Hermione leant down, kissing the tip of his nose first and then the bow of his lips.

"We'll be trampled if we don't get up soon," she said, brushing her free hand over his brows, one fingertip grazing the silvery scar on his forehead.

"Do your plans _not_ involve spending the night in the hospital wing?" Harry asked sarcastically. "Strange, I could have sworn that we'd scheduled something like that."

And she knew that the joke was funny, that Harry was teasing her . . . but all she could think about when he mentioned the hospital wing was the last time she'd been there. The time she hadn't told him about. She frowned.

Taking obvious notice of her change in mood, Harry reached up and brushed the pad of his thumb against her bottom lip.

"We've got potions early tomorrow," she reminded him with another kiss pressed to his thumb before she hefted herself to her feet.

Sighing, Harry nodded. He looked like he wanted to say something—he even opened his mouth and got a single sound out before his lips shut and he cleared his throat instead, pulling himself up by bracing against the wall. Briefly, he looked like he was studying the stones there, testing the new ones as though he were wondering if the magic would ever be the same again.

"Oi! Harry!"

Torn from deeper thoughts, they both looked up as Ginny stormed down the corridor, still wearing her Quidditch kit. Her hair was windblown and she had mud on her shoes.

"Long night?" Harry asked her, raising a brow.

"Ha," Ginny muttered dryly.

"Hello, Ginny," said Hermione.

"Can I borrow him?" Ginny asked Hermione with a pleading look. "It pains me to admit this, but the second years I was all but tricked into allowing on the bloody team don't seem to be responding to my leadership skills."

"You made them cry, didn't you?" Harry asked with a smirk.

"Shut up," Ginny said, holding a finger in Harry's face as she kept her attention on Hermione. "They might respond better to the whole . . ." And then she just vaguely gestured at Harry.

"By all means." Hermione leant in toward Harry, kissing him gently on the cheek and then reached down to pat his bottom affectionately. "Have fun."

Holding out his arms, Harry objected, "Don't _I_ get a say in this?"

"No," Ginny said, grabbing him by the collar of his robes and literally turning and dragging him back down the corridor.

Hermione watched as they went, meeting Harry's gaze, registering the trepidation in it, just before he disappeared around a corner.

"See you in the morning!"

Sighing, Hermione picked up both of their bookbags, hefting one over each shoulder and then stepping into her room. She deposited the bags beside a small table near the entrance and shut the door behind her.

"Does Harry know you still have his invisibility cloak?"

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ!" She stubbed her toe on Harry's heavy bag and in the next moment, her wand was in her hand as she whirled to face the intruder. "Ron?!"

"I'll never understand why Muggles curse like that. I mean, sure, I say 'Merlin's saggy bollocks', but 'Fucking' doesn't sound like a good middle name. Do you ever say _Jesus's_ saggy boll—?"

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?!" Her wand was still gripped tightly in her hand, and Hermione couldn't seem to loosen her grip on it as her heart thundered at a rapid pace in her chest. What had he been thinking startling her like that?

"Boy, you sure are jumpy tonight," Ron said with a frown and a furrowed brow, but then she saw him take a good look at her wand hand and _that_ seemed to make some point because he haphazardly folded Harry's cloak before standing up and setting it down on the seat behind him.

"Look, er, I mean . . . I was thinking I needed to talk to you." He sighed and looked down. "Or well, it was suggested that I talk to you. Harry too, but I thought it might go over better with you. Or maybe I needed . . . I dunno."

She wasn't sure whether it was the words he spoke or the suddenly uncertain expression on his face, but Hermione felt herself calm in moments. The white knuckles which had kept her wand in a viselike grip loosened, and she stowed the thing away before moving a bit further into the room.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

He stood, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot before running a hand through his red hair. "Well, it's just—I've been talking to Sabrina."

"Sabrina?" Hermione asked, not recognising the name.

"Oh, er, Sabrina _Piquery_. She's the mind healer that McGonagall hired. She says we can call her Sabrina. Must be an American thing," he said, shaking his head a little. "They've got a lot of weird stuff. You know they don't even call them _Muggles_?"

"The mind-healer . . . " She'd heard the rest of his comment, but the phrase had been the only thing to stick properly. She got a sinking feeling in her gut.

"Yeah," Ron looked down, obviously a little embarrassed. "I've been talking to her the past bit, y'see. Thought it was odd, at first, but I've been sleeping loads better the last month, so there's that, I guess." He shoved his hands into his pockets and cleared his throat. "Haven't needed a Dreamless Sleep in a while."

"Oh. That's . . . " She faltered for a moment and then finished, "Well that's great."

He smiled tightly, his shoulders tense with obvious discomfort over admitting this. "Yeah, well, she says it's good to talk. Healthy even. I've started writing home to Mum more often. Thinking maybe me talking could help her too." There was something hidden there in his gaze, which became painfully obvious when he said, "Dad says she sometimes has nightmares about, well, y'know—" _Fred_ "—everything."

Hermione felt the awkwardness melt away at the look on Ron's face. No, mind healers weren't her favourite subject, but this was _Ron_ , and he had been one of her best friends since she was twelve years old. He obviously needed something here, needed to say things or talk about things, or maybe even just needed someone to cry on—whatever it was . . . well, she was there for it. For him. She didn't know any other way.

"Of course she does," she said, when she was about to make herself speak again. "It's—normal. After everything."

"But it got me thinking that I might want to talk to you about last year," he muttered, his eyes downcast again. "About the Horcrux hunt."

Her stomach sank.

"The—the hunt?"

"Yeah." And if it were even possible, he lowered his gaze even further. "Look, when I left that night—"

"It was the Horcrux," she blurted out, the explanation automatic at this point as she stared at him.

He sighed and finally brought his eyes up to meet hers.

"It wasn't _only_ the Horcrux," Ron admitted, looking like the words tore something as they left him. "Yeah, it made me say things I might've never said, and I sure as hell never would have talked about Harry's family like I did." He paused and took in a breath. "Or about you."

Dumbfounded, Hermione found herself looking down at her own shoes now.

"I—Ron, I've already forgiven you. You know that."

He _had_ to know it. When they had dated briefly during the summer, they had discussed it. It had been a short talk, little more than him apologising 'for what happened' and her telling him it didn't matter . . . but she hadn't wanted to go into details any more than he had seemed to.

It had been enough. She thought it had been, at least.

"I need to say this, though," Ron said, looking like he was pleading with her to help him just by listening. "I think even without the Horcrux, I might've gone and left you both." He looked absolutely tortured by the admission. "And I've always known it. See, the whole time I struggled being out there, and I always thought that you and Harry were just stronger and braver than me. And, well, you know how I get when I start comparing stuff like that."

She nodded, not in agreement, but to show that she was listening, and then because she couldn't bear to stand in the middle of the room anymore, she moved to sit on the corner of her bed and waited for him to continue.

"I didn't say anything about what we were doing out there," Ron quickly said, "but I told Sabrina about me leaving you and Harry, and how I never really . . ." He shrugged his shoulders and frowned. "Well, _you_ might've forgiven me, but _I_ haven't done much of it for myself, I guess. She said it might help me if I were to talk about it with my friends. You and Harry, since you knew everything that happened, and I couldn't exactly tell _her_ all of it what with the Horcruxes."

Hermione swallowed, her throat thick with emotion.

"I don't think you'd have gone," she said. "And your, umm, Sabrina . . . She's right. We were there. _I_ was there. And it was shit. I used to—" She cleared her throat, looking down at the palms of her hands on her knees. "I had dreams. About being home. I'd wake up, and I'd plan out how I'd get there. Used to visualise myself walking out of the tent and collecting my parents and going home." She looked back up at Ron, forcing herself to do it, to meet his gaze. "So I don't think you'd have gone. Not really."

He nodded, listening to her every word and looking like he was really paying attention.

"That's just it, though. I had thoughts about going even when I _wasn't_ wearing the damned bloody thing. And I was just . . . scared. All the time. I know now that you and Harry were too, but at the time I was selfish because I couldn't—" He cleared his throat again and rubbed at his nose. "I couldn't understand. I just kept thinking how you both were _better_ than me for not being so scared all the time about . . . about your families. Then I said that shit to Harry about his parents, and the second I'd gone off . . . I realised that there was a _reason_ you both weren't scared like _I_ was."

He took a moment, took a breath, and looked up at her.

"You'd both lost a lot. And Horcrux or not, I wish I'd have paid you more attention. You both had already sacrificed everything to stop Voldemort, and it should have been me looking out for you because of it. Helping you both. So, I'm sorry, Hermione."

"I—"

She blinked, and felt a pair of hot tears fall onto her cheeks before she looked down, wiping them away with the back of her hand. She didn't want to think about them, about _why_ they were there. Didn't want to think about what Ron had meant when he'd said she'd lost a lot.

"Thank you, Ron." When her cheeks were dry again, she looked back up at him, forcing herself to smile. "I forgive you. Obviously."

He gave her half a smile and then opened his arms invitingly.

She was up off of the bed and hugging him before he could blink, and she squeezed him so tight she heard him let out a little huff. He clung to her though, not relenting his grip one bit—despite it being less tight than hers.

"Do you think I should forgive myself?" he asked.

"Definitely. This very moment."

Ron sucked in a deep breath, and she felt when his grip on her tightened. "I think _you_ should too."

Her inhale was so sharp she caught the scent of spearmint and grass on his jumper, but she said nothing. Instead, she gave him one more hard squeeze and then loosened her grip, leaning away until he'd gotten the point and released her.

"I think your mind healer would be proud of you," she said, half teasing.

"I think your parents would be proud of _you_ ," he said, giving her a stern look of determination.

Her spine went straight. Her breath caught. Her stomach plummeted. And she realised that he'd not just come there for _him_.

"My parents don't even know who I am." Her tone was soft, but the words were just as sharp as Bellatrix's dagger. "I don't think they'd feel any way about me at all."

"Who your parents _were_ ," Ron clarified. "They'd be proud. You survived a war. You saved lives. Merlin, it terrifies me to think of the number of bloody life debts I must owe you at this point, cause you sure as hell have saved mine plenty of times."

"Stop."

"See, I knew you were grieving, and shit, why wouldn't you?" he asked, clearly not stopping. "Alive or not, they were gone for you."

"Ron, _Please_." She could feel a burning in her throat, feel something hot flushing over her chest and her face.

"But they _are_ alive," he emphasised. "And that's because of you. Because, Merlin, Hermione, you were braver than I was. I couldn't have done it. Nevermind that I might've gone and fucked it all up because that's magic I don't think I'm smart enough for—"

"Shut up!"

The words burst out of her with a fresh wave of tears, and she crossed her arms over her stomach, trying to hold it all in. It felt like she was flying apart, like her world was closing in and she was losing every inch of air, every centimetre of space.

"They weren't murdered by Death Eaters!" Ron screamed back at her. "They didn't suffer. And they _would_ have. Do you have any idea how much I wish that Fred was alive somewhere across the bloody world, even if his name was something different and he didn't know who the hell we were? Your parents are alive somewhere smiling on some beach in Australia because you were brave enough to _save_ them."

Her knees gave out, and she barely felt the hard thunk of the stone floor against them as she doubled over.

She heard the shriek though, heard the scream as it clawed its way up her throat and then curdled on the air. And it felt _good_ , the way her throat was raw with the sound. So she made it again.

He was right. They _were_ alive, which meant she wasn't the murderer she'd been calling herself since she'd tried to retrieve them. Why did that somehow make it so much more painful?

The next thing she was aware of was someone directly in front of her, someone taking her by the shoulders and lifting her upward to face them.

Ron looked pained, his face pale beneath the scattering of freckles as he watched her.

But she couldn't breathe, couldn't catch her breath for long enough to say anything, to tell him she'd be fine, that she only needed a moment . . . to lie.

"It . . . hurts," she managed to say between gasping sobs.

"Grief does that," Ron whispered, placing a hand on her back and rubbing. "But . . . Look, I've been suspecting something was off lately. Lav wouldn't say why, but she thought you should talk to someone, and when I mentioned you had Harry to talk to, she gave me a look that made me feel kind of stupid. And then I ran into Luna, and sure she's barmy as ever, but she said that your magic looks sad but not like the rest of us who lost people."

He scooted closer and put an arm around her, tugging her against him. She let herself collapse there, let herself cry into his jumper . . . let herself feel whatever _this_ was. He'd called it grief, but she wondered how something so painful could have such a simple name.

"Then, I mean . . . We've all noticed how Harry tells you he loves you. And you don't say it back. You're both the two most important people to me. Merlin knows we've all tried to fix what those fucking Muggles did to Harry, and even Mum agrees that maybe a professional needs to let him talk about it all. But I think I'm more worried about _you_."

Harry. Oh Merlin, they'd _noticed_. It was like another raw wound on top of the first, and she wanted it gone, wanted to stop the blood flow and all the bloody pain.

"Can I—? Ron, if I tell you something, will you swear not to mention it again? To anyone?'

He cringed, looking obviously uncomfortable, but eventually, he sighed and nodded his head. "I won't make an Unbreakable Vow or anything, but I'll do my best."

She shut her eyes tight, her hands fisting in her lap.

"I do love him. I love him so fucking much."

Clearly unable to help himself, Ron said, "Duh."

She'd been wrong. Saying the words out loud . . . it only hurt worse.

"He can't know. He—Harry deserves better."

Furrowing his brow, Ron shook his head. "Hermione, bloody hell! After everything we've been through? Who could be better for Harry? Who knows him better than us? And _I'm_ not going to end up with him!"

Her voice was very small when she spoke again, her cheeks still wet. "I think—Ron, I think I might be broken."

Sighing, Ron pulled her into another hug, letting her collapse into his large arms.

"Can I tell _you_ something?" he asked quietly after a long moment of silence. "We're _all_ a little broken, 'Mione. But . . . I don't think that means we can't be fixed. Maybe not as easy as a Reparo Charm or that Muggle glue my dad keeps in buckets in his shed, but . . . there's gotta be something." He pulled back and sighed as he looked at her. "And whatever you're doing . . . that's not the answer."

He was right, and he'd chosen a hell of a moment to be so. She wanted to hate him for it, but his words held such a ring of truth she couldn't force herself to ignore them . . . Not this time.

"I don't know what else to do," she admitted, drawing in a deep breath that seemed to calm something at her core. "I don't—I fall to pieces whenever they—It's like I can't breathe or function at all. So I just—It hurts too much to think about it. It's easier to put it in a trunk and lock it away and leave it there."

He stayed silent for a really long time, looking like he was thinking very hard on what to say or how to help. Eventually, he shrugged and said, "A Boggart in a trunk is still a Boggart. Doesn't stop existing just cause it's locked away." He sighed and looked down at the fingers of one hand, fidgeting a bit. "I get you're sad and scared and maybe a whole bunch of other stuff. But one day you're going to need to open it."

"I threw them away, Ron. I may not have killed them . . . but they loved me. They loved me _so_ much. And I just—I erased it. I erased the love of the two people who were there for me, who never stopped loving me. It's gone. And I feel—"

Hell if she knew what she felt.

"Did you Obliviate _yourself_?" Ron asked, his eyes widening as if something occurred to him.

"What?" She furrowed her brow. "No, of course I didn't."

"It's still there," he said, literally poking her in the forehead. "They didn't keep their love for you, 'Mione. Parents give it to you. So it's still there." He said and poked her in the forehead again.

"Maybe that's why it hurts so bloody much," she said, "Because it knows I'm not . . . " She searched for a word, something to describe how she felt, something big enough and clear enough to make him understand. "I'm not worthy of it."

Ron sat there another few minutes, thinking—looking exactly as he had seven years ago when he crawled on top of a giant chess piece and began plotting their way across it. Eventually, he said, "Do you think Harry ever wonders if he's worth it?"

The honest answer was no. She didn't have to wonder, because she knew he _was_. He was the worthiest of them all.

"I mean, his parents did the same thing, really. They loved him so much that they erased themselves from his life just to keep him alive."

"It was their choice," she said automatically. "They _chose_ to die for him, Ron."

Ron frowned, looking down at the floor. He picked at his shoes for a little while before he eventually stood up, wincing a little at the movement.

"Look, I'm trying to help, Hermione. I want to help, but maybe that's the problem. Maybe you, me, and Harry spent so many years only learning to rely on each other that . . . we just fucked up. _I_ can't help."

He shrugged, looking a bit helpless. "But you need it. Because Harry sure as hell deserves someone who can at least _tell_ him when she's in love with him, and I think that someone should be _you_. And honestly, _you_ deserve more than—" he vaguely gestured at her "—what you're doing to yourself."

If she thought she'd been in pain before, it was nothing to the feeling that flooded her at Ron's words. She half hoped, as she sat there in the middle of the floor, that it would wash her away entirely . . . That she could disappear into it.

But she sat still and took a single deep breath before she nodded in Ron's direction, not meeting his gaze directly. She could see the window beyond him, could see the moon hanging in the sky, shining silver. She didn't look away.

"Promise me that you'll talk to someone who _can_ help? Not for me or for Harry, but for you?"

Her heartbeat was so loud in her ears that she almost missed his request entirely. Could she make that sort of promise? Could she commit to doing the thing she'd been avoiding? Would she ever feel enough again for it to make a difference?

"Hermione?"

"All right."

"Promise me?"

She nodded stiffly, her eyes still riveted on the sky through the window pane.

"Yes."


	25. Chapter 25

Helping Ginny with Quidditch was supposed to have been a one-time thing. Harry had gone into the Gryffindor common room to watch his ex-girlfriend "have a chat" with a second year Chaser and Beater, both of whom looked terrified at the sight of her. Harry couldn't blame them. He'd been taught to play Quidditch by Oliver bloody Wood, but at least Wood only ever made them have extra practices and then had a few violent temper tantrums in the showers if things didn't quite go according to plan.

_Ginny's_ obsession with Quidditch looked homicidal.

It helped that she had seasoned players on the team filling the other positions, so Harry had kicked her out of the common room, insisting that she get a shower and maybe some sleep, before he took the second years aside and gave them a few tips. Neither had played his old position of Seeker, but he had been team captain at one point, so he knew a little bit of how to do the job.

After about an hour of talking them through some basic moves that he knew Ginny expected them to know by heart, the boys both seemed a little more at ease, and Harry had gone back to the eighth year dorms with a lighter step. He'd knocked on Hermione's door, but she'd apparently already fallen asleep because the lights were out and she didn't answer. Ron too had gone to bed early, so Harry had stayed up late reading some of his favourite Quidditch books.

He'd met Ginny the next morning with parchments full of new play ideas and suggestions.

She, very begrudgingly, admitted that she could maybe use his assistance as long as he didn't get in her way.

The days that followed had Harry finally flying his broom again. Sure, he wasn't allowed to play the game in any official capacity, but being in the air brought a sense of peace to him that he didn't realise he actually needed.

It was a requirement.

He survived on it.

Flying was just as essential to him as the magic in his veins, the wand in his hand, and the witch in his bed.

He thought she might be a little put out with how many hours he was spending on the pitch, but Hermione was acting . . . oddly quiet. He didn't write it off as stress as he'd done at the start of the year because she didn't look exactly stressed. She looked . . . contemplative.

"Everything all right?" he'd asked her one morning at breakfast once the table cleared of everyone else.

"Hmm? Oh. Yes. Just thinking."

Harry had frowned, kissed her temple and said, "See you in Potions?" To which Hermione had responded with a small smile and a nod.

He'd stared at her, whispered what was now a very normal "I love you," and watched as the words seemed to sink in, drawing her gaze directly to his again, and sparking something there that he liked to think was hope.

Two days later, Ron had cornered him outside of Transfiguration when Hermione lingered behind to speak with McGonagall.

"Hey, have you seen the mind healer yet?"

Harry furrowed his brow, looking around to make sure no one had overheard his friend. After experiencing several years with people all over Wizarding Britain calling him crazy for saying that Voldemort wasn't dead, Harry's spine got a little stiff at the thought that anyone might even wonder about him talking to a mind healer.

"No."

"You set up an appointment, then?"

Sighing irritably, Harry said, "Hermione says she's not ready."

Ron gave him an odd sort of look. "You two joined at the hip now? Mind healing's not a date night activity."

Brushing him off, Harry said, "I'll get around to it, mate." But in all honesty, he _was_ waiting for Hermione. He worried about her. As long as _she_ was taken care of, Harry didn't need anything else. He was fine.

_He_ was fine.

He was _fine_.

He put the thought back out of his mind, resolved to wait until Hermione was ready and then he'd gladly walk her to the mind healer's office—wherever it was. He'd honestly not given it that much thought outside of making sure she knew it was an option.

Instead, he focused on his classes, his homework, Quidditch, and Hermione.

He hadn't been joking about trying to get back down into the Chamber of Secrets. But when he'd made the trip on his own—after being forced into a forty-minute long conversation with Myrtle—he realised that the whole place would need more than just magic to be clean enough before he even _considered_ fucking Hermione there.

So they took advantage of the prefect's bathroom, the Quidditch showers, their dorms. Once, she'd given him a blowjob in one of the greenhouses where they were almost caught by Neville, who apparently had promised Professor Sprout he'd look in on the newly potted shrivelfigs.

Tonight, though, Harry was happy to just have her back in his bed. He'd been fully appreciative at just the thought of sleeping next to her, especially since helping with Quidditch earlier that evening had left him a good kind of sore, but then she'd curled in with her back to his chest and pressed the lovely curve of her arse against his groin.

Just like that, Harry changed his plans.

Getting her out of her clothes was a practised dance these days, and soon enough, Harry was kissing his way down her spine. His whole body relaxed at the way her legs automatically parted for him, and once he knelt between them, he adjusted her up onto her knees before kissing her exposed sex until she made sweet little noises that she tried to bury in his pillow.

"Are you trying to keep quiet?" Harry teasingly asked her as he sat up, tugging down his pyjama bottoms and stroking himself to his full length.

"Mhm," she said, tilting her face to the side, one cheek still pressed to the pillow so that he could see the little upward tilt at the corner of her mouth.

"You know," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss the skin of her back, "I used to think that you could do absolutely anything. But, sweetheart, you're absolutely incapable of coming quietly."

She giggled softly at his words and then turned her face back down into the pillow.

"Challenge accepted," she said, the words muffled.

"Rude," Harry replied and smacked her arse sharply, relishing the little squeak that she hadn't been able to keep silent. "You know how much I love hearing you come apart under me." His fingers slipped through her wet labia, and he groaned before positioning his cock at her entrance. "Come on, love. You know I like hearing that pretty voice of yours."

She shook her head, but he could see her body shaking with suppressed laughter, so he rubbed the head of his cock against her and made a _tsk_ noise.

"If you want silence, then maybe _I_ should stop talking?"

"No," she objected, turning to look at him again and pouting just a little as she shifted her hips against him.

He pressed the tip of his shaft inside of her, grinning. "Oh? Do you _like_ it when I talk?"

She grinned again, and nodded, biting her lower lip as she did.

Harry licked his lips, turned on by her resolve. He pressed in a little harder and then stroked up the length of his cock with his hand, groaning loudly at the feel of it. "How about when _I_ make noise over how good you feel?"

Her eyes widened at the press of his head against her, and her mouth went slack.

"Still want to be stubborn?" he asked her as he slowly began filling her cunt, inch by inch.

"Oh god," she groaned, unable to hold back as he bottomed out.

He could see her stretched beautifully around the base of him, and he feathered the tips of his fingers over the taught skin where they were connected.

Biting his lower lip as he pulled back out only to thrust back in again harder, Harry said, "Baby, you can be louder than that. I didn't put a Silencing Charm on my door for nothing."

"Ah!" She gave a little shriek as he hit bottom again, jostling her forward. Her hands clenched beside her head, grabbing the pillow hard as she pressed her forehead to the downy surface. "Fuck, Harry. More."

"Yeah," Harry groaned as he placed his hands on either side of her arse, pulling her back against him, letting her body do most of the work.

"Feels so good," she said, "So fucking good. God, Harry. Your cock is amazing in me. So deep, and so fucking hard. Oh _shit_!"

Harry laughed, a deep rumbling chuckle in his chest. "If you think _you_ feel good right now, then you have no idea how tight your sweet little pussy is."

He hissed under his breath on a particularly slow stroke, prolonging the pleasure for himself. Leaving just the head in, he reached around her hips and began rubbing around the hood of her clit. Almost like magic, her perfect cunt clamped down on his cock, and Harry groaned, biting the soft flesh of her shoulder.

Her whole body jerked at the sensation, and she pushed back against him, forcing his shaft back inside of her as she hissed and began to beg.

"Please. _Please_. Need you in me. Need you so deep I can never get you out."

"Sweetheart," Harry said with a grin as he began to pant a little, picking up speed, "I'd never leave your gorgeous body, except you might've said something about me needing to go to classes."

"Fuck classes," she moaned, and then he felt her hand scrambling over his, putting more pressure on the fingers he was still using to tease her clit.

He laughed, thrusting harder and deeper until the bedframe began to strike the wall behind it. Harry leant forward, grabbing and repositioning his pillow against the headboard, creating a barrier between the wood and Hermione's head. Once he knew she'd be safe, he began fucking her in earnest.

"Oh fuck!" Hermione shouted, babbling into one of her arms as she rested her cheek against it. "So good, so bloody good. Shit. Love this. Love it so much."

Sweat began pooling at the base of his neck, and Harry shivered when he felt it drip down his spine.

"Harder, please. Harry, more. Love your cock in me."

Smacking her arse for being demanding, Harry actually began to slow down, which took great effort on his part. "I know you do, Hermione, but you're forgetting who's in control here, aren't you?"

She whimpered, and he could see her biting her wrist to keep from saying anything more.

He reached between her legs, rubbing again around where they were joined. He pulled his fingers back, soaked. "God, you're so wet for me."

"All for you," she murmured against her skin.

"Such a good girl," he whispered, running his fingers down the crease of her arse, using the lubrication to slowly slip one of them inside of her.

Automatically, as if she couldn't help herself, Hermione pressed back against the sensation, swallowing his cock and his finger both in silky, wet, _tight_ heat.

"Oh my _god_ ," she groaned.

Harry chuckled, twisting his finger around slowly as he pulled back, letting his cock slide almost all the way out of her before pushing back in. "And she thought she could be quiet."

"Again," she pleaded. "Need you."

"Like this?" Harry asked, fucking into her again so hard that the echo of his hips slapping against the back of her thighs sounded almost as though he'd spanked her.

"Ah! Yes!" She took it, pressed back against him and _begged_ for it, even.

"Shit," Harry swore, closing his eyes as he felt the pressure building. He always tried to make sure _she_ came first, but god, when she screamed for him and begged him and looked so pretty spread out for him, letting him fuck so many parts of her and asking for more . . .

"Harry, yes, oh god, please. Yes! Need you so much. Need everything. _Shit_! There! God, I love it. Love feeling you so deep in me. Like I belong to you. Like I'm yours."

"Don't hold back," Harry pleaded, using his free hand to smack her arse hard, even as the other hand continued to finger her. "Fuck, I'm coming. God, I love you, Hermione. I'm coming."

"Love—love . . . oh fuck! Love you!"

_What?_

It was as though his brain fully disconnected from his body.

His eyes opened wide, and he felt a thrill run up his spine, over his shoulders, and then punch him square in the chest.

"Wh-What?" Harry mumbled as his body caught back up with him.

"Love you," she murmured again as her pussy squeezed tight around him, but he'd been so startled by her words that he'd accidentally begun pulling out.

Completely uncontrolled, Harry finished, coming on the mattress between her legs. Whatever noises he was making or she was making were completely blurred out by the blood pounding in his ears and the fact that he absolutely and completely could not fucking breathe.

When the feeling came back to his limbs, though his lips and fingertips still tingled, Harry asked again.

"What?"

Hermione collapsed, her legs giving out behind her as her front fell to the bed, limp. She could probably feel his come against her hip where she'd landed, but she looked so boneless that Harry wondered if she even registered it.

He wanted to let himself think it was true—that he'd heard her clearly—but it hadn't been too long ago that she'd followed those words up with 'friend'.

"Hermione?"

"I love you."

The words were spoken into his bedsheets, and Harry watched as a line of tension appeared between her shoulders and shot straight down her spine.

"I'm . . . _in_ love with you."

She said the words slowly—as if she was testing them out, trying to get a feel for them.

He didn't know what to say or how to react. It felt too good to be true, and there was always something in the back of his mind reminding him that most things were exactly that.

Allowed out of the cupboard, but only to do chores. Allowed to go to Hogwarts, but you're probably going to almost die every single year. Oh, look, you've got a godfather . . . Let's go ahead and just take that away too. You can save all of your friends, but you're going to need to die, and by the way Dumbledore pretty much knew about it all along.

She loved him, though.

Was _in_ love with him.

Harry waited for the hurt to come at him.

"Harry?" She hadn't moved. She was still lying there in just her skin. He could see her sex glistening still from their lovemaking.

"I love you," he said, almost like a precursor . . . a temptation for her to reply.

"I—I know. I know you do." This time, she shifted, rolling until she was on her back and then sitting up. She pulled her knees in toward her chest, wrapping both arms around them, staring down at her toes.

Feeling strangely vulnerable, Harry sat back and tucked himself back into his pyjama bottoms. He grabbed his wand and used it to clean the sheets, feeling somehow . . . dirty and not knowing why.

"You _said_ it," he whispered as he sat back down on the bed, letting his legs hang over the edge.

"Yes," she said, and she may as well have said 'well spotted' for all the inflexion she used. "I did."

"Was it on accident?" He could understand if it was. He often said things in the heat of the moment that he didn't mean; granted, those were usually in anger.

"N—no." She held her knees tighter, stared harder downward.

He swallowed. He didn't want to ask, because he hated the idea of what the answer was, but he couldn't help as the words tumbled out, "Did you _mean_ it?"

He could see her nails digging into her calves as she gave a short, jerking nod. "I did."

_Then why?_ he wanted to ask her. Why did she look like . . . like _that_? Why did she look like she'd just told him his owl had died—again? Why was the room suddenly cold when he was sweating in it just minutes ago.

"I'm sorry," she said, pressing her forehead to her knees now. "Harry, I'm so sorry."

Was she crying? Was that why she was hiding her face from him? Why her shoulders were shaking?

"I shouldn't have . . . I'm sorry I told you."

He shook his head. He felt confused. No . . . he felt _stupid_. He didn't understand. He hated when he didn't understand things. A growing sense of panic pitted itself in the centre of his chest, reminding him of years earlier when every adult in the Order except for Sirius refused to explain things to him. It was anger and dread all tangled together so badly that he couldn't figure out where one end began and the other finished. Then, for some goddamned reason, he could hear Ron's voice in his head asking if he'd seen the bloody mind healer yet. _Fuck_!

"Why? What's going on? I don't understand."

The confession only made her shoulders shake harder, made her gasp a little against her legs.

"We can't do this anymore," she said after another few moments, once the trembling had subsided a little.

And just like that, everything cold in the room turned hot once more, and the panic and dread managed to untangle themselves, leaving him feeling both very separately but in equal amounts.

Harry spun on her, eyes wide. "What?"

Her whole body stilled, and after several long seconds, she raised her face to look at him. There were tears on her cheeks, and her eyes had gone red. "We have to stop seeing each other like this."

"No," Harry objected, shaking his head. It didn't make sense. He'd done nothing wrong this time. He hadn't hurt her accidentally this time.

"No, you said you _need_ this," he tried to argue in the wake of her silence. She needed this. That's what she'd said back when he'd told her that he loved her. She'd said she needed _this_ and he needed _her_.

"You don't get to make the decisions," he said in a tone of voice he knew usually brought her to her knees.

But she wasn't on her knees. She barely even reacted other than to untangle her arms from around her legs and move to the edge of the bed, where she stood and leant down for her nightgown before slipping it back over her body.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, sounding so eerily dispassionate now that the dread inside of him was vanishing quickly, leaving behind nothing but anger.

"No!" Harry shouted and stood up, looking down at her with what he now realised were tears in his own eyes. "You can't just . . . You can't say that you love—and then just . . . I don't understand. What did I do wrong?!"

She winced, and he saw her bite her lip hard as she reached for a set of her robes draped over a nearby chair.

"Nothing," she said, turning her back to him and shrugging the robes on over her shoulders. She sounded as if she might be crying again, but he couldn't see her face to be sure. "You didn't do anything wrong. It was me. My mistake. I shouldn't have told you—but I thought . . . Well, it doesn't matter what I thought now."

"It fucking _does_ matter!"

She turned back to look at him, and she looked like she was hurting. His instinct was to offer her comfort, but something inside of him had been set off, a fire he was having difficulty gaining control of.

"I thought if I said it . . . If I told you how I felt . . . it might fix whatever it is that's—The thing in me that's fucked up." She winced again and then reached up to wipe at her cheeks. "But it didn't. I think—Harry, I think it just made it worse."

"There's nothing wrong with you," he said automatically, but before she could even respond to that, he shook his head again. "No. I mean . . . The-The mind healer," he blurted out. "You said you'd think about it. That, this, it doesn't have to mean . . ."

He felt his chest hurting. Was he even making sense? He couldn't think straight.

"You deserve better," she whispered from across the room.

_That_ came through his mind loud and clear.

"There _is_ no better than you!" Harry shouted at her, not wanting to think about what he _actually_ deserved. Did he deserve anything? What did that even mean? People had been telling him all goddamned year long that he was some sort of stupid hero, and didn't heroes deserve happy endings? Wasn't that how the stories were supposed to go? His parents had been heroes, and they didn't deserve what their ending was, but why the fuck shouldn't he deserve to have what—and who—he bloody wanted?!

At his declaration, Hermione rolled her eyes, the sadness he could see etched across her features morphing quickly to annoyance.

"Is that so?" she said, buttoning up the robes she wore and then looking up at him defiantly.

"Yes," Harry said determinedly, but he could hear the pure spite in his own voice. "What? I'm not allowed to praise you unless I'm talking about your cunt?"

She flinched at the question, but then her shoulders squared and she crossed her arms.

"So you think, what? I'm it for you? Broken Hermione Granger who can't think about her parents without falling apart and who needs to have her arse smacked raw during sex—that's what you deserve?"

If she thought that about herself . . . God, what did it say about _him_?

"You're not broken," was all he could think to reply with, and he regretted the words the very second they'd left his lips.

"Fuck you," she spat. "I know what whole feels like, Harry, and this isn't it! I can't _breathe_! I can't _feel_ without hurting."

He couldn't argue that. But the way she'd talked about herself had set off something in him, something defensive and protective. He couldn't think of her as anything but wonderful and perfect. Well . . . not perfect. She was absolutely stubborn and always had been. It was annoying when it came to schoolwork and had often even turned dangerous in the thick of war. For as often as she talked about wanting everyone to get along and be equals, she had a quick temper and acidic insults that could make people feel ten feet below her.

But . . . Okay. So, she wasn't perfect. She had problems. They all did, didn't they? Ron had said as much when they'd spoken, and Harry was willing to concede now that he had been right… But the tone she used when she called herself broken . . . It sounded the same as when Malfoy used to call her a Mudblood.

"So let me take care of you," he said finally. "You don't have to hurt . . . or . . . you don't have to hurt alone."

Silence was his only reply, and it was thick in the air around them.

"I can't," she said, at last, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead and looking distraught. "Because I fucking love you, and I won't have you wasting your time on this mess I've become." She turned to the side, and he could see her in profile as she began to pace. "No, you may have a twisted sense of your own worth, Harry, but I know you're worth ten of me."

_His_ sense of self worth was twisted? Despite this apparently being all about _her_ thinking she wasn't good enough, every word that came out of her mouth struck _him_ like an insult. Automatically, because it was his defensive move, Harry wanted to hurt her right back.

"You don't love me," Harry said, the words tasting foul in his mouth. "If you did, then you wouldn't be saying these things. This is about you, not me."

"Don't you dare!" She rounded on him, her finger pointed directly at his chest.

"Don't act like you're running away to spare me, Hermione!" Harry shouted, glaring down at her. "You're just running away from this because you're scared. You're not doing this for me."

"Don't tell me what I feel! Every goddamn thing I've ever _done_ has been for you!"

"Bullshit!"

"I went after the Philosopher's Stone for you. I turned myself into a bloody cat for you."

"You did all of that shit for the same reasons that Ron and I did, and probably even more to satisfy your own goddamned curiosity because you need to know everything!"

"That's what you think? I turned back _time_ for you, Harry! I could have been expelled!"

He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise up defensively. She might not have said it outloud, but he knew she meant she'd done it to save Sirius, and that was always a subject that he never wanted to touch on. It also really pissed him off because he knew that this time, she was right. That one thing she'd not done for herself. Sure, she might've wanted to save Buckbeak, but his godfather's life and freedom had been the point of it.

He said nothing, just let the anger roll around inside of him as he glared at her. Eventually though, Harry seethed, "Say it."

Her whole body was stiff as a suit of armor, her face twisted with the same anger he could feel roiling in his gut. "I obliviated my parents and went off to hunt Horcruxes, _for you_. So don't stand there and tell me this is for me, when every fucking choice I've made since I was twelve years old has been for _you_!"

And there it was.

He felt nothing. He felt empty.

_"I'll go with you,"_ she'd once said.

She would have died with him. For him. He understood. Afterall . . .

He'd died for _her_.

"I never wanted any of this for you," Harry said, shocked by his own sudden quiet.

Across from him, Hermione was still breathing hard, still frozen to the spot, her hand outstretched toward him. At his words . . . She seemed to crumble, and the anger between them melted, but it left behind something nameless and awful.

"I know," she said, "I know. God, Harry. I'm sorry. I didn't—fuck.".

"I know you didn't mean it," he said quickly. "I know you're angry, and that's why you said it."

But it didn't make it less true. She'd have been safe had she never become his friend. Maybe. She was still a Muggle-born, after all, but had she not been _Harry Potter's_ Muggle-born, then at least she and her family wouldn't have been targeted.

"I'm not trying to blame you. _I_ made those choices. Because I love you. Even before we—before _this_ —I've loved you since I was a child. You're more important to me than I am."

"Maybe _that's_ the problem," Harry said, looking down.

"Maybe," she conceded. "But I'm stubborn." She sighed, wrapping her arms around herself until she looked like she might hurt herself. "And I'm right about this. I love you, but we have to stop."

He shook his head. He wanted to disagree with her, to fight with her, but god, he was so tired of fighting. He'd spent seven years fighting for his life, and even the little spats and scraps with his classmates this year were _exhausting_. This argument more than anything had drained him of what little energy he felt like he kept on reserve these days.

He wanted to stop her from walking out the door, but he figured that maybe she needed space.

Still . . . something needled at his mind.

"Have you known you were going to break up with me for a while?" he asked point-blank. "When we first came back to Hogwarts after Christmas. You were going to do it then, weren't you?"

And he'd been too stupid—too in love with her—to see it.

"What?" Her brows furrowed and she looked honestly confused for a moment before the expression quickly morphed into something more pained. "No," she said after several seconds of silence. "No, not then."

Harry shook his head. He didn't believe her. He didn't know what to believe anymore.

"I—" she hesitated, and it looked like she was at war with herself. He wondered if this was another thing she was trying to protect him from.

Frowning, Harry said, "Stop treating me like . . ." But he couldn't think of how to say it.

"Harry . . . " It hurt to hear her say his name like that, all tender and pained. But then, her expression hardened, and he saw determination there behind her eyes. "I was late," she said at last. "In January. That's why I was out of sorts."

"What?" Harry asked, not understanding a word she said. _Nothing_ she'd said tonight had made sense.

His confusion seemed to frustrate her, and she tugged on the ends of her hair in exasperation.

"My monthly. It came late. After Limitation, I thought . . . " She shut her mouth tight, took a deep breath and then continued. "I thought I was pregnant."

The breath was knocked right from his chest. He stared at her in silence. All he could think of was what Arthur and Molly would have said. Would they have been disappointed in him? Merlin, _of course_ they would have been. He would have ruined Hermione's future. Fuck, they'd not even taken their N.E.W.T.s yet! Hell, even his own parents—despite being so young—had at least waited until they'd left school to have him.

Then, like a sick twisting knife in the back of his mind that never _ever_ went away, he could hear his uncle Vernon's voice muttering, _"There's enough freaks like you out there. Should just sterilise the lot of you."_

Harry didn't realise that he'd physically reacted to the voice in his head, but he must've because Hermione had clearly noticed a change in him.

"And that, right there! That's why I didn't tell you!" She was pacing again by the time he looked back up at her.

But then he thought about Sirius. And the photographs he had of his parents. And he thought about Remus and Tonks, and how Remus had looked that night at Grimmauld Place when he'd found out Tonks was pregnant. And Harry remembered screaming at him. And he thought about Teddy, and felt sickeningly sorry that he hadn't reached out to Andromeda since the previous summer.

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat and whispered, "I would have taken care of you."

"I didn't want you to _have_ to," she said, standing still at the edge of the room now, "I didn't want to ruin your life. I didn't want you to think I was trying to trap you, or that you owed me anything. Because you don't. Not a thing."

_I owe you everything_ , Harry thought to himself but kept silent.

Nothing he said would work. He knew that now. He didn't think Hermione was broken in the way that she said it, but she was. So was he. So was _this_. And he thought that maybe neither of them were capable of fixing anything right now. Not with so much left unspoken and obvious anger still hovering between them. Ron had been right. Harry couldn't fix her. She couldn't fix him.

Not knowing what else to say, but knowing that he didn't want her to see however he reacted next, Harry said, "I think maybe you should leave. I'll . . . I'll see you tomorrow."

He turned around, feeling like he wanted to cry or scream or set something on fire. But he also just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep, pretending that this night had never happened.

Harry didn't look at her when she said, "Goodbye, Harry" but he closed his eyes when he heard her shut his door behind as she left.


	26. Chapter 26

Sleep was hard-earned.

Despite the few tears that had escaped during their actual argument, Harry hadn't let himself cry. So they were broken up. That didn't mean she was out of his life. Things would go back to the way they'd always been. Wouldn't they? He couldn't think otherwise. It had been his worst nightmare from the start of this whole relationship. No—it wasn't a relationship.

She'd made that very clear.

But she loved him.

Was in love with him.

He didn't know what any of it even meant, really. The only kind of love he'd ever known had been friendly—platonic. Sure he said he loved Ron like a brother, but how would Harry even know? Did he know what Ron felt like when he said those words to his own brothers? If Ron had died in the war, would it have hurt _him_ as badly as it had the Weasleys when Fred had died? And the Weasleys. He loved them! Loved them like a family. But what did he have to compare it to? He might've said that he loved Petunia once, likely out of habit of watching Dudley do it first, but even though he couldn't pull those memories up from inside of him, he knew that even if he _had_ said it, it was likely never returned . . . or repeated.

Harry stayed in his bed staring up at the ceiling in deep thought.

He knew he had loved Sirius. Even if he always said he loved his parents, it was more reactionary than anything—a child was supposed to love their parents. He felt gratitude for them, of course. But seeing how fear of losing his parents had been a leading cause of Ron leaving them during the Horcrux hunt, and how utterly devastated—broken—Hermione was over the loss of hers . . . Harry was absolutely certain that he loved his parents very differently from his friends.

But Sirius he had loved.

He loved Teddy and all the hope that the little boy brought. Cringing, Harry wondered if older people looked at _him_ that way. It was hard to think of Teddy and not immediately miss Remus and Tonks.

Sighing, Harry promised himself to do better with his godson, let him grow up into his own person and not some mirrored reflection of what once was and never would be again. He vowed that he would love Teddy the way _he'd_ never been loved. In Harry's home, his godson wouldn't be told how much he looked like his father except for . . .

Harry rubbed his eyes.

God. Hermione had thought she'd been pregnant.

Harry couldn't even wrap his head around that. Sure, he'd always thought that maybe one day he would want to be a father, but he'd literally just got finished feeling like he might not be murdered if he walked into the wrong room, turned the wrong corner, or ran into the wrong Death Eater disguised as a fucking teacher.

So a father? Now? No. He was glad to know she'd not been pregnant, but it made him sad that she had kept the secret. No . . . not a secret. The burden. The stress. The weight of it. She'd kept that all to herself the way Hermione always did. She was like a human version of a Protego. Take take take take all the hits and it doesn't matter if she breaks as long as whoever's behind her stays safe.

Well . . . he couldn't really fault her that.

Hell, she might've even learnt that shit from _him_.

He _loved_ Hermione.

Even if he might not know what love really was due to a severe lack of good examples, he knew what he felt for her. He wanted her with him always. He wanted to make her smile, laugh, and feel safe. He wanted the best for her. When he thought of Hermione, he imagined that he did—or could—love her in a way that looked like how Arthur loved Molly. How Tonks had loved Remus. Maybe how his father had loved his mother.

So he knew he had to fix this, even if it meant that he needed to give her space.

"I'll talk to her tomorrow morning," Harry vowed. "Let her sleep tonight."

He couldn't have been out for more than a couple of hours when a nightmare shook him awake. Looking out the window, he could still see the bloody moon and not a hint of sunrise anywhere in the distance. Catching his breath, Harry tried to ease the panic that still lingered in his chest. Merlin, it felt like a dead weight. As though his heart was no longer racing but also hadn't just up and stopped working entirely. Oddly enough, it felt like it had shifted too, sitting like a stone right behind his sternum, preventing him from inhaling deep enough to offer any relief.

It wasn't as terrifying as the nightmares that had come earlier in the year, or Merlin forbid, the ones in previous years when old Tom fucking Riddle occupied a portion of his head.

But still . . . habits were hard to break.

He needed to see that she was safe.

Even if she fucking hated him for it.

Grabbing a shirt and tossing it over his head, Harry took his wand and reached for his father's cloak only to remember that it was still in Hermione's room. Sighing, he reasoned, "Well, if I get caught by Filch, I get caught by Filch. Detention's not the worst thing to ever happen to me."

Slowly he made his way down the corridor, hesitating only a moment before lightly knocking on Hermione's door.

No answer came.

Biting his lip, he was tempted to just open the door but also knew that it would be a serious betrayal and invasion of her privacy considering they'd literally just broken up.

"Hermione?" He knocked again.

And again.

"Hermione?" His voice grew louder and his fist hit the wood just a bit firmer.

She wasn't a heavy sleeper.

"Look, I know you're probably still very cross with me," he said with a sigh as he leant his forehead on the door, shifting his weight, "but I need to know that—whoa!"

The door to the room gave way, and Harry stumbled forward, catching himself from falling by gripping onto the nearby open dresser drawer . . . that was empty.

" _Lumos_!"

He flashed his wand at the bed and a coldness settled right behind that stone behind his sternum, spreading out across his chest like a spider stretching its legs.

The bed was empty. Her trunk was gone. Her books, clothes, parchments, wand . . . everything.

She was gone.

Fast enough to forget that he was barefoot, Harry rushed through the corridor, unaware that he was shouting Ron's name at the top of his lungs. Some doors opened, but Harry paid no attention to them.

By the time he reached Ron's room, his best friend was already standing outside, Lavender beside him wrapped up in a bedsheet looking terrified.

"She's gone!" Harry shouted.

"What's happened?" Neville asked as he approached from behind, wand drawn.

"Hermione's not in her room. All her things are gone."

"What?" Ron, whose eyes had still been hooded with sleep as Harry had approached, seemed to sharpen like a sword at the words.

Lavender put a comforting hand on Ron's shoulder. "Where would she go? Did something happen?"

Harry cringed and ran a hand through his hair. "Fuck. We . . . She kind of—"

"Oh," Lavender said with a frown.

"What did she do?" asked Neville.

"She broke it off," Harry said lowly. "But . . . Do you think she moved to another room?" He looked around. If she'd gone anywhere else in the eighth year dorm, someone would have noticed by now considering the scene he was creating.

"Oi! Anyone seen Hermione?" Ron's voice echoed down the hall.

No one answered. A few people disappeared back into their rooms and shut their doors.

"Should we find Professor McGonagall?" Lavender pulled Ron's bedsheet more tightly around herself, looking worried.

Groaning, Harry shook his head at first. He didn't want to worry the headmistress if this turned out to be nothing.

"I'm going to go check the Room of Requirement," Neville insisted. "I don't think anyone's used it this year—or even if it _can_ still be used, but if anyone could figure it out, it would be Hermione."

"Let me put on a robe; I can come too," Lavender volunteered, disappearing back into Ron's room.

Neville settled in against the opposite wall to wait for her.

"Could she have gone to the Library?" Ron asked, but he didn't look as if he expected an answer . . . It was more like he was strategising, running through a playbook of his own creation.

"With all of her things?" Harry snapped but then immediately looked contrite. "Sorry."

Ron frowned, but it wasn't in accusation.

"Wait!" Harry shouted, feeling stupid for not thinking of it earlier. "The map!"

He turned to make a dash back to his room, but someone was blocking his door.

"You won't find her on that," Luna said softly, reaching out to give a comforting squeeze to Harry's arm. "She's not in the castle."

Shocked to see her, and also refusing to let her words sink in, Harry asked, "What are you doing here, Luna? These are the eighth year dorms."

She didn't react other than to smile tenderly at him and say, "Oh, I've been sleeping with Dean and Seamus."

Ron made a squawking noise behind Harry and then fell into a fit of coughs while Neville stared very hard in Luna's direction.

Luna furrowed her slender brows. "Are you all right?"

"You're sleeping with Dean _and_ Seamus?" Neville blurted out.

Thankfully, Lavender chose that moment to emerge, fully dressed from Ron's room. "Right," she said, "I'm ready."

"Well, Dean has a very comfortable armchair in his room, and Seamus created a personal fireplace in his. I like to nap on the hearth," Luna casually clarified.

Blinking, Ron shook his head and looked at Lavender. "She's not having sex with Seamus and Dean."

Briefly confused, Lavender sighed. "Considering they've been shagging each other for the better part of two years, I'm pretty aware of that."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. "Luna. Where's Hermione?"

The blonde frowned, shrugging. "I'm not sure. But I think wherever she went, she needed to go there on her own."

Looking at his friends, Harry felt all the wind go out of his sails. They were no longer at war. This was no longer an army. And _he_ sure as hell wasn't leading it.

"I'm going to go see McGonagall."

"Do you want us to go—?" Neville began, but Harry shook his head.

"Everyone maybe go back to sleep," Ron suggested, kissing Lavender's cheek. "I'll be back."

Neville awkwardly began to retreat to his room, and Luna sat down outside of Harry's door, fashioning her night robe into a blanket and setting up camp there. Lavender looked concerned but silently nodded as she stepped back into Ron's doorway.

"You don't have to come with me," Harry said as Ron came up behind him. "It's my fault she's left."

"I know I don't _have_ to," said Ron, reaching up to rub the back of his head and giving Harry a halfhearted smile. "But it's habit at this point."

They walked in silence, not even reacting when they caught the Bloody Baron giving Peeves a stern lecture on one of the staircases. By the time they reached the stone gargoyles that sat at the foot of McGonagall's office, the witch was standing there . . . waiting for them.

"It's past curfew," she commented lightly. She didn't exactly look like they'd disturbed her sleep. She was still in her usual professors' robes and her hair was pulled tightly back as it always was. "I'm afraid you're both late. Miss Granger has left the school."

Despite hearing it from Luna already, the words coming from a more stable person sent a bolt of pain right to his chest. Unable to stop himself, Harry clutched at it and cringed.

"Where?"

McGonagall shook her head. "If I possessed that knowledge, I do not believe I would be sharing it with you and disturbing the privacy that Miss Granger seems to require right now."

She let out a heavy sigh, one that Harry had heard so many times over the years, usually after he'd done something stupid—so not much had changed.

"Come along, Potter. You too, Weasley. You both look like you could use a cup of tea."

* * *

The night air was cool, but Hermione was numb. She couldn't feel the wind whipping against her cheeks or the soreness in her eyes any longer, just the steady thrum of her own heart, beating in her chest as if it still had anything to beat _for_. It hadn't realised yet how completely futile the act was.

She stood outside the gate at the front of the crooked little house, her feet planted just as firmly as the old rusted cauldron nearby and the Wellington boots that had been there since she could remember. Everything was in its place—she could even see several chickens roosting on the eaves of the house itself—but despite its familiarity, she felt like an intruder. And wasn't she? Yes, she had spent a good deal of her summers since she'd started at Hogwarts here in this house . . . But this wasn't the summer. It was barely even spring. And she wasn't just here for a visit, to laugh and to play with her friends . . . She was here because she had nowhere else to go.

"You there, what's your business?"

She didn't have to freeze at the sound of Mr Weasley's voice because she was already firmly rooted to the spot.

"Lower your wand, Arthur," said Mrs Weasley. "Can't you see it's Hermione?"

The matron bustled towards her, and Hermione watched with wide eyes as the woman approached. She was wearing a plaid robe and worn slippers on her feet, but somehow she still managed to look formidable.

"What is it, dear? What are you doing here at this time of night?"

It was a good question. A _fair_ question. Still, Hermione didn't know how to answer.

When Harry had told her he thought she should leave—she had known what he'd meant. He'd wanted her out of his room, wanted to be alone to feel the things he was feeling. She couldn't blame him for it, not really . . . But when she'd gotten back to her own bedroom . . . God, she'd felt as if she were drowning. He was there, on every single surface, splayed across her bed, sitting in the chair by the corner. She couldn't shake the shade of him. So she'd taken the cloak— _his_ cloak—and she'd gone to the library. There had been a time when it had been the most comforting place in the world to her, but when she had gotten there, she hadn't been able to take her eyes off of the table near the restricted section, the one where he'd set her on his lap for the first time.

Even the Room of Requirement hadn't been far enough removed from the things they'd done—the things she'd _felt_ —to make her stop thinking of him.

She'd made her choice on the seventh floor, right in front of the Portrait of the Fat Lady.

"Hermione?" This time it was Mr Weasley who spoke, coming to stand beside his wife with a concerned expression on his face. "What's wrong?"

"Come here, dear," said Mrs Weasley, not waiting for an answer. "You look like you're frozen through."

Hermione felt herself wrapped in a warm embrace, and then a pair of sturdy arms drawing her toward the house, through the yard and into a warm room lit only by the low light of a banked fire.

"Sit here." Mrs Weasley's instruction was clear and firm, and Hermione let herself be manoeuvred onto a small loveseat near the fire as the couple whose home she'd descended upon set to lighting sconces and giving one another furtive glances.

At last, when there was a roaring fire in the grate and Molly had brought in a hot cup of tea and a plate of scones, the pair sat across from Hermione, both on the edges of their seats leaning toward her.

"Something to eat, dear?" Molly offered.

Hermione just stared at the plate of treats before forcing a small shake of her head that sent her reeling and made her want to vomit.

"All right," said Arthur. "Maybe later."

"Hermione," said Molly after her husband, "Does—well, does Minerva know you're here? That you've left the school?"

After she had decided to leave, Hermione had gone to her room, packed her trunk, and headed straight to Professor McGonagall. The headmistress had, of course, tried to convince her to stay . . . But Hermione was an adult, and the entire eighth year class had been extended the option of taking the N.E.W.T.s outside of the school if they wished to. She was merely taking up the offer.

After that—well, after that, everything was a bit of a haze. She knew she'd been at the Leaky Cauldron, intending to take a room for the night . . . But before she'd been able to accomplish the task, she'd been gripped by a panic so acute, so all-consuming . . . Merlin, she'd disapparated away before she'd made the choice to, leaving her trunk behind.

"Hermione?"

"Yes," she whispered.

Molly and Arthur exchanged looks and then turned back to Hermione.

"Right, that's good," said Arthur, wiping at his brow and then rubbing his jaw for a moment. "And everyone at the school is . . . no one's hurt?"

That was a lie, and she knew it. _Harry_ was hurt. Not physically . . . But god, the pain she'd seen in his eyes . . . the pain _she_ had inflicted.

"Everyone's fine," she forced herself to say.

Molly sighed with what sounded like relief, but then her expression seemed to morph back into one of concern.

"And you, dear? Are you well?"

She was back in the seventh floor corridor for a moment, staring at the portrait to the Gryffindor Common Room. She could see in vivid details the colour of the Fat Lady's gown, the ringlets which hung down over her sleeping face. She could feel that same draft on the air, and Harry's cloak tight around her, enveloping her . . . smothering her. She couldn't breathe, couldn't see or feel anything in the castle without remembering what she had just done.

"Hermione?" Arthur sounded concerned.

"I didn't know where else to go."

Molly stood then, settled herself onto the worn loveseat beside Hermione, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. At first, the touch was unbearable, a reminder of what she didn't have—what she might never have again—but as Molly began to stroke her hair, and Hermione let herself relax in the embrace, she felt herself give a shuddering sob.

"You did just the right thing," Molly said as Arthur leant toward them nodding. "You come here anytime you need someplace to be. Do you hear me, Hermione? You come home whenever you need to."

Hermione cried so hard she couldn't hear the rest of what was said—ugly, wracking sobs that drowned out everything but the broken, jagged edges inside of her. By the time she began to quiet, and the room around her came back into focus, Arthur was reheating her cup of tea and holding it out to her with a sombre look.

"Drink something," he said, "I put a little calming draught in it, but I can make a fresh cup if you don't want—"

She took the cup without saying anything, draining half of the steaming hot liquid in one go and feeling the tea and the potion settle in her belly, a warm pool of comfort that she could use to focus her thoughts as Molly kept hold of her hand.

"—make up her bed, and I'll owl Minerva in the morning to see about her things," the older woman was saying. Arthur nodded once and then gave Hermione an affectionate pat on the arm before he disappeared up the stairs.

"I left my things in London," she said after another quiet moment. "I think they're still at the Leaky. God, I left them right there by the bar."

"Never you mind," said Molly. "Arthur will fetch them when he's done in your room. I'm sure Tom will have put them somewhere safe."

And perhaps it was the tender way Molly said it, or the fact that she'd referred to the bedroom Hermione had shared with Ginny during her visit as 'hers,' but for just a moment, Hermione felt like she _was_ home.

"I left him," she said, her face blank and her voice devoid of emotion.

"Who, dear?"

"Harry. I . . . I broke up with him. Tonight."

Molly was quiet for several seconds before she spoke again, standing and pulling Hermione up to stand with her. "Come on, you need rest."

"Mrs Weasley, I—"

"I heard you, dear, and there's nothing to do for a broken heart but give it time to heal."

"I . . . I'm the one who broke _his_ heart," said Hermione.

Molly gave her a pitying look for a moment, but soon it had melted into one of understanding.

"We'll talk more tomorrow," she said, "When you're rested and fed."

She led Hermione up to the first floor bedroom after that, and then tucked her between the sheets, gave her a kiss on her forehead, and left her be.

Hermione cried herself to sleep.

* * *

McGonagall's office felt discomforting to Harry.

After having spent so much time in it when it had belonged to Dumbledore, the place now felt strange, as though every little piece of it were out of order. The only things that had stayed the same were the position of the large desk, the paintings of the previous headmasters and headmistresses on the walls, and the large stone basin in the corner of the room. Harry practically glared at the thing. The pensieve always brought him a bit of truth and almost every memory he'd witnessed inside of one had been something he wished he'd never seen.

As McGonagall set two steaming cups down in front of him and Ron, Harry looked up at the wall behind her desk. Dumbledore's portrait was one of the largest in the room. The painting, a perfect replica in almost every way, was fast asleep in its frame.

Harry turned away from the sight of it, feeling let down.

"I did not get much out of Miss Granger before her departure, but the two of you can rest well knowing that she did not vanish off into the forest alone or some other nonsense. I granted her the use of my person floo once it was apparent that I could not convince her to stay."

McGonagall's words washed right over him. He didn't care that someone had tried to stop Hermione from leaving. He cared about where she was now. For all he knew, she'd panicked and gone off to the Forest of Dean to scold herself for her sins against her parents. He didn't want her to be alone, especially somewhere like that.

"She'll come back, though," Ron insisted after drinking down his entire cup of tea. "Hermione won't miss sitting her N.E.W.T.s"

Finally, something marginally cheered Harry, and he looked up with brighter eyes in gratitude at Ron. "You're right."

McGonagall shook her head. "While her studies and exams are her personal business, I should let you both know that Miss Granger has opted to take her exams from abroad. It was offered to all returning seventh and eighth year students, and while I would prefer to be present for the process, I could not deny—"

"And why couldn't you?" Harry snapped. "You're the headmistress of Hogwarts! How many times was I stuck between a rock and a hard place or almost killed because Dumbledore did whatever he wanted?"

"Harry," Ron muttered, eyes wide. "Maybe lower your voice—"

"I'm right, though, aren't I?" Harry demanded. "Dumbledore and the board of governors and the Ministry all could force me to fight a bloody dragon when I was fourteen, but she couldn't tell Hermione she wasn't allowed to leave Hogwarts?"

McGonagall cleared her throat, drawing Harry's attention to her face.

Stern eyes pinned him to his seat.

He looked down, feeling immediately ashamed of himself.

"I'm sorry," he said.

For all of his nightmares filled with Hermione's screams of being tortured, he couldn't ever forget who had screamed in the courtyard when Voldemort had announced his death to everyone. Thinking back to that moment, Harry frowned, feeling more than sorry for snapping at the witch and disrespecting her the way he had.

"It's my fault."

Minerva McGonagall flicked her wand, and a chair moved itself beside Harry. Slowly, she sat down and sighed heavily. "Well, if I were to ask, I assume you'd tell me that _everything_ is your fault, Mr Potter, is it not?"

He wanted to roll his eyes but didn't dare.

"Mr Weasley," she said, turning her attention away from Harry. "The various paintings around the castle have informed me that you've set about attempting to get both Mr Potter and Miss Granger to see reason and visit Miss Piquery. Is this true?"

Ron scoffed loudly, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "Stubborn lot."

"Yes, I would agree," McGonagall said.

Harry's nose twitched in irritation. "I asked Hermione to go, and she . . . It started a whole fight, and then another fight." The stress of their arguments felt like it was causing actual physical damage to him. "She wouldn't go."

"Miss Piquery is not here at my request for _couples_ counselling, Mr Potter," McGonagall said. "She is an expert at helping those who have experienced trauma."

"I'm _fine_ ," Harry insisted.

"I do not plan on forcing you," she said.

Her voice always sounded stern but soft. Harry always knew when he'd disappointed the woman, but at the same time, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would always have his back.

"I don't want to talk about the war," he said, shocked at how quiet he sounded. "I don't want to talk about my childhood or my family. I don't want to talk to anyone."

"It's not a requirement," McGonagall softly insisted.

The stone in his chest felt larger than ever before. He couldn't swallow past it. It was growing, larger and larger until it felt like it was blocking his airway entirely. Harry tried to take small, short breaths to keep breathing but also not draw unwanted attention. He could look angry, he _was_ angry, but Merlin forbid if he fucking broke down and cried right here.

"I'm fine." The words scratched their way out of his throat. "I don't need help. I'm a grown man."

The silence in the room took on a life of its own.

He could hear the heartbeat of the air and the way the tension split down the middle like it had been whipped into submission.

Ron's hand settled on Harry's shoulder.

Harry shook his head and closed his eyes.

Then he heard Minvera McGonagall speak. It was soft, tender, sympathy without pity, no trace of condescension or even awe. Her tone was sad. And the gentle sadness didn't even sound like it belonged to _her_. When the woman said, "Boy Who Lived" and touched his arm, the sadness in her voice sounded like it had come from _him_.

Opening his eyes and unleashing the tears that he'd kept at bay, Harry shook his head, swallowed down the stone, and said, "I didn't want to be."

He didn't know when he'd let go of his stubborn pride or when his body decided that it couldn't support its own weight anymore, but when McGonagall wrapped her arms around him and let him cry into her lap, he felt a piece of that stone in his chest crack. It still hurt. It was still a struggle to breathe and swallow and the thing was goddamned heavy as hell . . . but it could be broken.

He could feel Ron patting him on the back, staying silent.

McGonagall's voice echoed a comforting repetition of, "There, there, lad" until he could no longer hear the sound of his own sobs overwhelming everything else in the room.

"I'll go."

"What?" Ron asked, the volume of his voice shocking compared to the rest of the stillness in the room.

Harry sniffed, wiped his face on his arm, and sat up. "I said I'll go see the mind healer."

McGonagall looked very proud of him indeed. "Well, that's settled."

He looked down. "But Hermione—"

"Write the girl an owl containing all your blithering emotions and then leave her be."

Shocked by the drawling tone, Harry took in a sharp breath.

McGonagall sighed irritably, looked upward, and muttered, "Can you _not_?"

"The boy is keeping the rest of us awake with his nonsense, and all you're doing is patting him on the back and kissing away his bruises."

Harry slowly turned his head.

The portrait of Severus Snape narrowed black eyes down at him.

"Fuck me," Ron swore, pointing up at the painting. "Has he been there this whole time?"

"Don't talk to me about Hermione," Harry said, struggling with emotions inside of him.

After everything that had happened, he'd felt a deep remorse for the way Snape had died, especially since he'd spent literal years thinking he was just as bad as Voldemort. But there was still a bitterness left behind. The man had never once offered him a kindness, and when it came to Hermione, he'd often been cruel.

"All things considered," Harry said, standing up. "I don't think I'll be taking romantic advice from you of all people. Especially when it comes to my Muggle-born girlfriend."

Snape outright glared at him, the sneer in the painting looking even more angular than it had in real life. "Perhaps I am the _only_ one who could give you appropriate advice on the subject, given my experience and first-hand knowledge. Though, you've never exactly shown an interest in listening to those who know better than you."

Harry shook his head. He wanted to bid McGonagall goodnight and walk out of the room pretending that he'd had a lovely chat and a bit of a breakthrough followed by absolutely nothing.

But Snape, even in death, had a way of provoking him to speak.

"So what? I leave Hermione alone?" Harry demanded. "Because I might say something truly stupid and drive her to marry another man?"

The words clearly struck a soft spot, and Harry felt both guilty and victorious when he caught the small change in expression on his former professor's face.

Snape said nothing for a full minute.

Somehow, Harry didn't feel like he'd won anything.

"My advice is genuine," Snape finally said. "No matter how deserving of it I think you are. I advise you to let the girl have her space, not in the best interest of whatever nonsensical romantic delusions you may have for one another—" the room took a collective breath in silence "—but because I am very astutely aware of how uncomplicated it can be to lose a lifelong friendship, and trying to force the issue rarely helps the matter."

Harry looked down.

" _Especially_ when romantic delusions are involved," Snape finished.

It felt against his nature to agree with the man, but . . . well . . . his potion's book sixth year had always been right.

"Maybe I should send Hermione an owl," he said to McGonagall.

She blinked, looking back and forth between Harry and Snape's portrait before her shoulders lost a bit of their tension. "I think that would be a very smart idea indeed."

Harry nudged Ron and headed for the door.

McGonagall cleared her throat. "Despite Miss Granger being off the grounds, is it too much to hope that all violent attacks will not resume? In particular, that Mr Smith will be able to finish out his year without any more trips to the hospital wing."

Feeling a bit lighter with a plan in place, even despite Hermione being gone, Harry turned back, smiled at the woman, and said, "No promises."


	27. Chapter 27

_Hermione,_

_I don't know where you are right now, but I've been reassured that you went of your own free will. I just hope that you're safe. I'm sorry for everything I said. I don't like rowing with you. I never want to do that. I was scared when I woke up and you were just gone._

_I miss you._

_I don't fully understand why you left, especially since, of the two of us, it's_ _you_ _who deserves to be here at Hogwarts. I'm honestly not sure what to do without you. Keep up with my classes, I suspect. Revise for N.E.W.T.s. I know you'd like it if I did that._

_I'm sorry._

_Please come back._

_I love you._

_Harry_

* * *

"What brings you here today, Harry?"

With arms folded defensively across his chest, Harry stared at the mind healer, Sabrina, and felt annoyed that she seemed so unimposing. He was used to figures like her—professors, ministry officials, Order members, basically anyone older than he was—stepping into his space and telling him what to say, do, and think. But to be asked why he was there?

"Fought in a war," he said with a shrug as though the words meant very little to him. "Supposedly that means I need to talk about things."

"Do you _want_ to talk?" Sabrina leant toward him, taking her glasses off and setting them atop a clipboard on her knees.

He felt a defensive cold chill run down his spine. "I'm not talking about how I killed Voldemort."

"You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. I'm not an Auror or a priest. I'm not here to take your confession."

Well, _that_ took a little of the pressure off, but he made sure to keep a visual on her at all times while also avoiding eye contact in case she happened to be proficient at Legilimency.

"But _you_ made this appointment, Harry. There must be something on your mind."

"The headmistress thought it would be a good idea," he said petulantly. Scratching at his trousers, he added a little shamed, "And I promised my best friend I would come. Seems to be helping him with . . ." He vaguely gestured.

Sabrina gave him a warm smile that reminded him a bit of Mrs Weasley—motherly, comforting, and something that made him think that she genuinely cared about what he said. "I'm happy to hear that. But if you don't have anything you want to discuss. Maybe that's your promise kept then?"

"Oh come on," Harry said, letting out a heavy sigh. "I may not be top of my class, but I sure as hell know that there's enough wrong with me that someone like you would love to just . . . I dunno, crack me open and organise all the bits inside," he said, waving his hands around his head angrily. "I don't know _what_ to talk about. Where do I even fucking begin?"

She laughed a little, not unkindly, and picked up her spectacles once more, setting them firmly on her face and leaning down to look at her notes. "I've heard you were raised by No-Maj's. Er, Muggles. How was that?"

He furrowed a brow at the unfamiliar word, but then when her question sank in, his entire posture stiffened.

"It was fine," was his instinct to say, but he cringed right when he heard the words leave his mouth and sighed again. "Look . . . I . . ." Harry licked his lips. "I don't know. I don't even really talk about that stuff with Ron and Hermione. They only know some things because I couldn't keep my mouth shut or . . . or things they overheard or saw sometimes."

"Having secrets like that must be difficult. Do you prefer it that way?"

Looking down, Harry thought it over. He'd never really considered his childhood to have been a secret. He knew he didn't like secrets. He hated that Dumbledore and the Order had kept so many from him. If he thought long enough about it, he knew blamed Sirius's death on secrets being kept. Hell, his own parents were murdered because someone else couldn't keep a fucking secret.

"I don't like secrets," Harry finally whispered, suddenly feeling very small. "But I don't trust easily. Everyone's always wanting a piece of me or my story or whatever. They've got the whole Boy Who Lived bullshit up in their heads, and they just want me to confirm their own personal hero fairytales."

Another thought occurred to him.

"And I don't want their pity."

The mind healer set her clipboard aside, leaving it on a small table beside her armchair and then settling her elbows onto her knees.

"I can understand that," she said, "And so I'm sure you'll appreciate that I'm American. I grew up in Minnesota and went to Ilvermorny when it was time. There wasn't a course of study on British current events then. I'm afraid I didn't know who you were until I was hired on here at Hogwarts. So when I tell you that I'm not interested in the details of your life as some sort of sideshow, I hope you'll believe me. I'm here to help people, Harry, and I'm bound by my oath as a healer to first, do no harm, and second, keep the things I learn confidential."

Raising a brow in shock, Harry asked, "Is that why you were picked? Because you didn't know anything about the war?"

He'd wondered why McGonagall had chosen someone from another country, especially America. Even people on the _continent_ knew about Voldemort.

Sabrina nodded. "I did know some things, of course. Events like this don't stay quiet for long. But I didn't grow up knowing anything about the first war that took place here. Couldn't have told you who cut off what snake's head or had what tattooed on their arses."

"That actually happened in _my_ war," Harry said with the first smile crossing his face since he walked into her office. "The snake thing, I mean. Neville can really swing a sword."

"Right." She winced, as if she were embarrassed, but seemed to shake it off. "My bad." She reached back for her clipboard. "My point is, though, that if you're someone who doesn't trust easily, this is probably the best environment to practise in."

The idea felt terrifying, and Harry even began mentally picturing his Patronus as though it would protect him.

"Do you think it's important, to the whole mind healing thing, if I tell you about how I grew up? With my Muggle family, I mean?"

The woman gave a small shrug. "I think what's important is up to you. I'm just here to help you sift through it all."

Harry took a deep breath, and then another, and another. Soon he felt like he was struggling to maintain the oxygen in his body. The sweat on the back of his neck felt cold, and he was sure it was all in his mind, but the walls seemed to be closing in a little.

He closed his eyes.

"You're here with me now," said Sabrina mildly.

He opened his eyes, and then his mouth, and took one final shaking breath before letting the words come to him.

"I lived in a cupboard under the stairs."

* * *

_Dear Hermione,_

_I hope the owl knows how to find you, wherever you are. And I hope you're safe. I miss you so much. It's strange without you here at Hogwarts. To be honest, sleeping without you next to me is difficult too._

_Please can you just go somewhere safe and warm? I keep having these horrid thoughts that you've gone off to somewhere we went while looking for the you-know-whats last year. Just be at some Muggle hotel or even the Leaky or something. Maybe fire-call Ron's parents. I bet they'd love to see you._

_You don't have to write me back, but I thought you should know that I went and saw that mind healer Ron was going on about. I'm sorry I tried to push you into going, or that I didn't go because I was waiting for you. I don't know why. I think I felt like maybe I needed to be strong for you. That maybe I wasn't the one who needed help._

_It's been made abundantly clear that I was wrong about that._

_She's nice. Americans are an odd lot, though. Half the things I told her about my aunt and uncle's house growing up had to be explained twice over since she didn't know what some of the Muggle words were and then she didn't know what they were called here since we say different things than Americans do. They don't even call them Muggles, for instance._

_And, well, I had to explain what a cupboard was. They apparently call them closets. Same size, or so she says, so the point was still made._

_That was fun._

_I'm being sarcastic if you can't tell._

_I'm sorry for keeping a lot from you about, well, everything. I promise I'll try to talk more. I'm even talking to Ron a bit about what I say to the mind healer. She suggested that I work on trusting people. We haven't quite covered the part of my life that would explain exactly why I don't._

_I suppose we'll get there._

_I don't want to push, but I think you'd like her. I think talking would be good for you. It's weird. It doesn't exactly feel good right now, and sometimes it can be a little shitty when I think about some of the things she mentions or has me bring up . . . but it's good too, I guess. It's not bad. It's like how it used to really suck talking about my parents until I could talk to Sirius and Remus about them. Like someone finally understood._

_I miss you._

_I love you._

_Harry_

* * *

"How have you been since we spoke last?"

"What, for the last three days?" Hermione replied sarcastically.

The woman across from her was wisened with age and had lines on her face that made her look like she knew what she was doing. That had been why Hermione had picked Miranda out of all the mind healers in London. But still, as she inclined her head, Hermione sighed.

"The same."

Silence.

"Would you like to expand on that?"

Another sigh.

"Everything's still . . . the same. I wake up in the morning, and I cry. I revise. I have tea with Molly and Arthur and then feel sorry for myself. It's difficult to . . . to want to do much at all."

"What do you _want_ to be doing?"

Hermione flicked at a bit of lint on the sleeve above her wrist. "I don't know. Something worthwhile."

"Aren't you?"

Hermione gave Miranda an annoyed look. "Hardly. Revising and lying about feeling sorry for myself?"

"What's not worthwhile about that?"

She made an impatient sound in reply.

"Hermione?" Miranda asked, leaning forward.

"It's not helping anyone," Hermione said in frustration. "I'm not—I'm not making any sort of difference. I'm not there for the people I love. I just—I'm so caught up in my own shit that I can't look past it."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, it's bloody well so!"

"Hmm."

Hermione stared mutinously down at her hands, her heart pounding in her chest.

"You know what _I'm_ seeing here?" asked the mind healer.

"A mess?"

"No," said Miranda, quite seriously. "I'm seeing you be very hard on yourself."

Hermione scoffed. "Yeah, well, no one else to do that for me."

"Is it something to think you need? The criticism?"

She let the question simmer in her brain, and the mind healer waited patiently.

"Maybe."

"I wonder why that is."

Hermione shrugged. "Dunno."

"Don't you think there are things worth praising as well?"

Hermione scoffed again. "I'm really good at Obliviation Charms."

Miranda was quiet for a moment.

"Can I tell you what I see when I look at you, Hermione?"

She wanted to say no, but the promise she'd given Ron hung like an albatross about her neck.

"All right."

"I see a young woman who is intelligent, kind, hard-working, and resilient. I see someone who is witty, and who is brave, both for the choices she has made in the past and for the choice she is making now, to be _here_."

"That's very kind of you," said Hermione automatically, but Miranda held up a hand.

"I'm not finished. I see a young woman who grew up in the midst of a war, but who did not let the violence or the hatred that surrounded her infect her. I see a devoted daughter. A loving friend. An inspiring war heroine who is talented and filled with integrity."

"Merlin," Hermione breathed. Her eyes were wet, and she knew if she dared to blink tears would begin falling. She held her breath and looked upward. "How can you see all that when all I see is . . . pieces?"

Miranda smiled. "Sometimes we don't see ourselves very clearly. But that's why you're here. You _want_ to see yourself more compassionately."

"Not all the time I don't," Hermione admitted, feeling the first hot tear on her cheek. "Sometimes, I just want to hate myself.

"We'll work on that too."

* * *

_Dearest Hermione,_

_I don't know where you are or what you're doing, but I need you to know that I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere. A part of me gets that maybe you needed to be alone for a while, but when you want to come home, I'm going to be there for you._

_And if that's Hogwarts or Grimmauld Place, it doesn't matter. Even if you want to be somewhere else. I'm just . . . not going to go on with my life without you. You're it for me. Whether you think you deserve it or not, I made my choice. Hell, maybe it wasn't even my choice. I'll just say the Sorting Hat did it, shall I? Something magical put us together in the same House where we became best friends, and then one day I realised that I'd been in love with you for longer than I could remember._

_So I'm here._

_Take your time._

_I love you._

_Harry_

* * *

"You look like you're upset."

He really was.

He was also glad that he'd not promised McGonagall that he'd leave Smith alone, because that twat had made some remark about Hermione's absence meaning that she was scared of taking her N.E.W.T.s, and Harry had leapt over two goddamned tables in the middle of History of Magic just to sink a fist into the motherfucker's face.

It had taken Ron and Neville both to drag Harry off the prick.

Miraculously, he hadn't gotten in trouble for the event, thanks only to the fact that Professor Binns hadn't noticed a bloody thing since probably the 1950s. But then a few Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had cornered Harry just after Charms and held what seemed like an intervention. They were so well-prepared and endearing as hell, he actually felt really bad about what he'd done to Smith.

God, he _really_ missed Malfoy.

Almost no one ever made him feel bad about starting fights with _Malfoy_. And the prat did always give back a good few punches too. Getting sucker-punched by the ferret always felt almost as good as it hurt—at least in retrospect.

"I think I want someone to hit me," Harry blurted out in confusion.

Sabrina seemed like she was trying not to look surprised, but her brows furrowed just a bit before she spoke. "Like, for fun?"

"Kind of," Harry nodded. "Not like how my uncle used to toss me about or grab me," he clarified, no longer surprised that he was able to even say the words out loud let alone so casually. "My cousin used to fight with me. Bully me, actually. But when my aunt and uncle weren't looking, I'd get in a good punch or two."

He smiled fondly at the memories, which was a strange thing to feel fond about. He didn't smile over the memories of the cupboard, or the cooking and cleaning, or all the yelling and being called names.

He didn't smile over a single memory of Vernon or Petunia prior to Hagrid scaring the ever-loving shit out of them.

But he did smile over memories of Dudley.

A small handful, at least.

Most had been covered up by time, but strangely, talking to Sabrina had him thinking more and more about his childhood. Sure, Dudley had been a prick when they were older children and teenagers—up until he got a little better following the whole Dementor incident—but Harry had started to remember being very young . . . before they were allowed to go to primary school. Petunia hadn't had many friends, and she gossiped about the neighbours so often that very few of them even wanted to interact with her let alone have their children play with hers. So when they were very little, Harry and Dudley only had one another to play with.

Dudley hadn't shared his toys well, and they usually ended up fighting over that—with Petunia putting Harry in the cupboard as a punishment—but he remembered the two of them colouring together. He remembered making funny little drawings out of the shapes of their hands. He remembered going to a park once, and while Petunia was busy talking to another mother, Dudley pushed him on the swing. And then an older kid had teased Dudley for being chubby, and Harry had thrown a mud clod at the boy's face. The boy had gone running to his mother crying, and Petunia had put Harry back in the cupboard for what he'd done.

They didn't go to the park together again after that.

"I think we were friends once," Harry admitted, feeling a prickle of sadness in his chest. "We were practically babies, but then my aunt was always getting mad at me, and my uncle would come home with gifts for Dudley and . . . I never got anything. I think we were probably five or six when my cousin started actually being mean to me. I remember my uncle was yelling at me one day after school for something. Then he laughed at me. And Dudley started laughing too."

"You deserved better," said Sabrina. "It sounds like maybe the _both_ of you boys did. It can't have been easy growing up with such toxic guardians."

For some reason, that made him think of Malfoy. Malfoy being a shit for so many years until one night, Harry saw him crying in a bathroom. And then another night, when Harry watched him lower his wand all the while looking terrified.

"I think parents sometimes really fuck up their children," Harry said bitterly, wondering how he and Dudley would have gotten on if Petunia and Vernon hadn't been so awful. "Who knows what would have happened to my cousin if his parents were anything decent. I'll tell you one thing," he said firmly, "if the situation had been reversed, _my_ parents would've _loved_ him."

He felt emotions get stuck in his throat, and he cleared it loudly before rubbing at his nose.

"I'm hearing a lot of anger," said Sabrina quietly. "That's good. You have a right to feel angry. What happened to you was wrong. The way you were treated was wrong. The fact that you were never allowed to have a close relationship with your cousin was wrong. That sort of toxicity . . . That sort of abuse . . . It's _never_ deserved. Certainly not in your case."

His eyes started getting wet, and Harry rubbed at them, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees in an attempt to stop the flow of tears from cracking through.

"But what we have to do, Harry, is find ways to _feel_ that anger, that disappointment, that _hurt_ , that help us to heal. Have you been practising those exercises we discussed at our last session?"

Groaning, Harry nodded as he wiped at his eyes. "I'm not much of a journaler, but yeah, I've done a few."

"How did that go?"

"Well, the diary didn't write _back_ , so . . . that was new and different." Harry laughed, and at her perplexed expression, he waved a hand. "Inside joke, sorry. It went fine."

* * *

_Dearest Hermione,_

_I hope you're doing all right. I'm doing a lot better. It's been four whole days since I punched Zacharias Smith in the face. Aren't you amazed? Ron says I should be given an award. McGonagall didn't really punish me for it since no professor actually saw, but she did give me some pretty evil eyes over dinner. Madam Pomfrey says that if I intend to keep breaking his nose, that I'm going to have to start healing him myself and restock the hospital wing with bruise paste._

_Been thinking a lot about family lately. I know you said it in anger, but I know that at least a part of everything that happened to you during the war was because you knew me. Because you were close to me. Or, I guess, more because I was close to you. I know it wasn't my fault and that I was targeted for something that was completely out of my control. But I am sorry that you got caught up in the middle of it for so long._

_And I'm sorry you lost so much._

_Family isn't something I really had a good grasp on. My parents were dead, what little family I knew I didn't like, and then I basically just started piecing my own together. You, Ron, the Weasleys . . . Of course Sirius was there for a time, and hell, pretty much everyone else that's been there for me over the years._

_But I know it's not the same._

_So I'm sorry._

_I love you._

_Harry_

He sighed as he sealed the envelope and handed it over to the school owl that had been taking his letters to Hermione since he'd begun writing her. The bird took flight immediately, and Harry watched as she went, following until she disappeared into the distance. He'd watched her go that first time, secretly hoping that he could see her land somewhere down in Hogsmeade, but no such luck.

"All right," Harry said, turning to look at a second owl. "You've got a big job, and I need you to follow instructions very clearly." He held out a second letter and watched as the bird took it. "Do _not_ bring this inside the house. Take it only to the third or fourth window on the second floor. It's for my cousin, and I don't want either of his parents seeing it _or_ you, clear?"

The bird gave him a look that Harry interpreted as acquiescence, and then took flight, headed off to Little Whinging.

"Well, this could really suck," Harry said with a groan as he ran his hands through his hair. "Stupid mind healer and her stupid suggestions."

* * *

"I just . . . I don't want to stop feeling this way."

The mind healer looked at Hermione curiously, tilting her head with her quill stilled on the parchment she'd been writing on. "Which way?"

Hermione shifted the throw pillow she'd put on her lap when she'd first sat down on the sofa. It was a barrier between her and the woman across from her, something to cling to that felt just a little safe.

"Guilty."

"For what?"

She focused on the feel of the velvet beneath her hand as she stroked the fabric. "Erasing them."

"Do you think you _deserve_ to feel guilty?"

Hermione blinked. "Yes."

"And Harry, does he deserve to feel guilty as well?"

She clenched her fists, not daring to look up at the woman across from her. "Of _course_ not. Nothing that happened was his fault."

"And yet, it was _him_ you followed that last year of the war," Miranda pointed out. "He's the reason you Obliviated your parents and sent them off to Australia."

"Please stop."

"It was Harry Potter who made you a target more valuable than other Muggle-borns. If you'd never met him, you might have run off with your parents rather than sending them alone."

"It's not his fault."

Miranda sighed. "It's not _anyone's_ fault," she said. "Sometimes, bad things just happen. It doesn't mean we don't deserve to forgive ourselves, to move on, to feel self-compassion."

"Yeah." Hermione said the word just to say _something_ , because it made sense, what the mind healer was telling her . . . Logically, it made perfect sense. But emotionally? Merlin, she wondered if she'd _ever_ believe it.

"You've got to be kinder to yourself, Hermione."

Looking down at her hands, Hermione said, "I don't feel like I much deserve kindness."

"Why?"

"I—I'm a bad daughter. A bad friend. A bad girlfriend."

"What evidence do you have to support those conclusions?"

Caught off guard by the question, Hermioen repeated, "E-evidence?"

Miranda arched a brow. "Yes. Evidence."

"Well, I—I Obliviated my parents. Didn't even say goodbye to them."

"To save their lives."

"I should have just—"

"Would your parents have let you go, Hermione?" Miranda interrupted. "Would they have left if you hadn't done what you'd done?"

"I never gave them the chance."

"But you have an idea."

Of course she did. There was a reason she had done things the way she had. If she hadn't— "They'd have stayed. They wouldn't have—They wouldn't have left me."

"And they'd have been killed. You told me yourself you saw the burnt-out shell of your old house after the Battle of Hogwarts."

"Yes."

"So did you do something wrong, or did you do something difficult?"

The truth was, she didn't know anymore. She only knew that if she had to do it over . . . She'd still choose her parent's lives.

"And as for this idea you have that you're a bad friend—Hermione, you stayed by your friends through a war. You put them first at every turn. You never abandoned them."

She was crying again, and she swiped at one of the tears at the corner of her eye. "I've abandoned them now. Abandoned Harry."

"You've left to meet your needs for once," said the mind healer. "Because until you're sorted, you've got very little left to give to him."

"He—He's still writing to me."

The mind healer beamed. "That's because you're not the only one who hasn't given up on you. Have you read them yet?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't think I'm ready."

"We'll tackle that another day," Miranda said. "Now, I'm going to walk you through some pensieve exercises that I think will be incredibly useful going forward, and then we're going to discuss bumping up the frequency of our visits for a bit. Are you all right with that?"

_No_ , she thought. She was already coming twice per week, and the work was exhausting . . . but then she thought of the letters sitting unread in her bedroom at the Burrow. Harry's letters.

"Yes," she said. "That's fine."

* * *

_Hermione,_

_I decided to leave off the "Dearest". Started thinking that maybe that was a bit presumptuous. We did, after all . . . apparently, break up. I do want to let you know that I don't want to. I didn't want to. I still love you. But I can love you as my friend too if that's what you need. Because I can't imagine my life without you in it._

_I love you always._

_Your friend,_

_Harry_

* * *

He'd not gone to breakfast the morning of the anniversary of the battle. Neither had Ron or Neville. Ginny, Lavender, and the others had left the dorms and returned an hour later to let them know that McGonagall had said some kind words about the dead, the hope of the future, and the gratitude to those who had stood against Voldemort.

Harry had tempted fate by going outside, thinking that maybe a walk around the lake would improve his mood, but some arsehole reporter had charmed a camera to hover just outside the gates and caught a photo of him walking back to the castle. Harry considered it a big breakthrough that he hadn't shot the thing out of the air with a Blasting Hex.

He sat in Sabrina's office, grateful that she even had time for him. He knew that she'd started getting a lot more attention from students the closer that May approached. He figured that the day would keep her a very busy woman.

Checking the clock in her office, Harry let out a sad little laugh.

"Something funny?" she asked kindly with a soft smile.

Harry shook his head. "Was just thinking about something."

"Anything you feel like sharing?"

"No."

_Exactly one year ago right now, I was dead._

But he couldn't tell _her_ that without revealing a hell of a lot of things that he swore he'd never repeat outside of the few people who already knew. Just _thinking_ about it made his pulse begin to speed up and the tightness in his chest return. He rubbed at the scar on his head with one hand, scratching at his chest with the other. Then he looked up and caught the expression on the mind healer's face. He dropped both hands back into his lap immediately.

"You've made a lot of progress in a very short time, Harry," Sabrina said. "Any emotions that come up today should not be considered a step back. You're doing the work. Have you been practising your exercises?"

Harry quickly nodded.

When she didn't say anything to follow up, he took her silence as instruction and closed his eyes. It didn't take any effort to conjure up an image in his mind.

Meditation had gone terribly and felt way too much like Occlumency for him to really make any progress with it, but shorter exercises actually seemed to help.

During one of their sessions when he'd walked in already anxious because a sweet little second year had stopped to give him a hug and thank him for saving their world and not letting Death Eaters kill her family, Sabrina had calmly sat him down and asked him to conjure up an ally in his mind. It didn't have to be someone real, but it had to be someone he knew he could trust.

Naturally, he went down the list of people in his life, but even the best of them—Ron and Hermione—were human and, therefore, flawed. Despite trusting them with his life, there was a part of him that didn't trust them with his fears and weaknesses.

So, he'd closed his eyes and, almost immediately, a glowing stag shimmered into his mind. His ultimate ally. His Patronus had saved his godfather, his friends, and his own life more than once, and knowing that it looked like his father gave Harry a sense of protection that he knew he'd never really felt before. His real Patronus had fought off Dementors, and the one in his mind helped protect him from his thoughts.

Taking a breath, Harry let the shimmering glow envelop him. It took several long minutes, but his pulse began to slow and the tightness in his chest began to ease. Then, in his mind, something caught his attention.

His own Patronus's light kept him surrounded, but another whirled by him. When his vision caught up with the image, he recognised the second Patronus immediately.

It was an otter.

"How are you feeling?" Sabrina quietly asked.

Harry opened his eyes.

"I miss her."

* * *

_Hermione,_

_I know it's been a few weeks since I last wrote. With the anniversary of the battle . . . Well, I had a lot on my mind. I've been trying to catch up with a lot of correspondence lately. Getting ready for N.E.W.T.s, and I'm actually revising. Sticking to the schedule you wrote in my planner, actually. You're pretty brilliant, did you know?_

_Anyway, assuming I don't completely fail all of my exams, graduation is coming up. It's a month off, I know, and I'm sure McGonagall has been writing to you about it as well, but I do wish you would come. No expectations, of course. I'm inviting others as well. Even though they're coming for Ron and Ginny, I asked the Weasleys. I know they're throwing a big celebration at the Burrow. I hope you'll come._

_Oh! You'll never guess who might show up! My cousin Dudley! I reached out to him, and he actually wrote back. He wanted to come up and see Hogwarts, but with the Muggle Repelling Charms, that would obviously be a problem, so the Weasleys said he was invited to the Burrow._

_I also wanted you to know that unless something happens, this may be my last letter for a while. Not that I've changed how I feel about you in any way, but because I've realised that maybe I needed to heal separately from you. And I hope that you're healing as well, and if being away from me has helped, then I'm glad of it. I don't want to distract you from that._

_So know that I love you, and I'm here for you always, but I will let that happen in your time._

_Always,_

_Harry_

* * *

She hated the pensieve, but after a solid month of working with it daily alongside the mind healer, she had to admit it was effective. She could think about her parents without bursting into tears, for one thing. She could remember what had happened at Malfoy Manor without going into a panic. She could picture Harry's face without feeling immediately guilty.

It was progress, hard-won and noticeable.

But she still couldn't convince herself that _Harry_ didn't deserve better.

She may be healing, but after what she had done to him . . . The way she had left him in the dead of night. She remembered what it had felt like when Ron had left them in the forest . . . the way she'd cried over him.

Had Harry cried when he'd found her gone?

"What are you thinking about?"

She looked up at Miranda and gave the older woman a tired smile.

"Harry."

"What about him?"

"I was wondering what happened when I left Hogwarts."

The mind healer nodded her head. "That seems like a natural curiosity."

"I feel like I don't deserve to know."

"There's that critical thinking again."

Hermione shrugged, not having the heart to argue. "It's second nature, I suppose."

"Doesn't have to be. You have exercises to help with that."

She sighed. "Right. Look for the evidence. Try to see myself as someone else sees me."

"There you go," the other woman said with a smile. "I'm already half out of a job with you."

"Look, Miranda. I know I'm fucked up—"

"I wouldn't say that."

"I know _you_ wouldn't, you're too kind. But I am. And—Well, that's what I'm here trying to do, unfuck myself."

The mind healer gave her a beaming smile. "It's all any of us can do," she said.

"Yeah." Hermione took another deep breath. "And I just—I get frustrated because I feel like I'm improving in some ways. Some days I feel on top of the world. Happy, ready to forgive myself . . . but others? Other days I feel like literal rubbish. Some days I _can't_ look for the evidence. And I don't know how to be consistent, how to do things correctly all of the time."

Her eyes were beginning to sting and she let the frustration out.

"And I hate the choices I've made. I hate that I left Harry behind to come here and be inconsistent."

Miranda let several moments of silence pass between them before she spoke again. "I think you're being a little unfair to yourself," she said. "Because I have seen remarkable improvement in you since we first began meeting. But healing takes time, Hermione. It's not a straight upward line, but a winding path dipping up and down valleys and hills, never really reaching the top of the mountain but seeing more of it the farther you go. Sometimes, you won't be able to see it at all . . . but if you keep climbing—keep doing the work—you will see it again."

"That's bleak," said Hermione.

"Is it? It's always seemed hopeful to me."

They both laughed, and Hermione felt the tightness she hadn't realised had settled in her chest again disperse. When they had quieted, Hermione let herself think again.

"About Harry—"

"He'll keep. He's a man, not a mince pie," Miranda said with a little grin. "And if he's half as in love with you as you are with him, he'll understand."

* * *

_Dear Harry,_

_I'm sorry I haven't written until now, and I realise how inadequate an apology that is for the way I left things. I have no excuse except to say that I am a mess._

_I haven't read your letters yet, and again, I have no excuse other than my own cowardice, but I needed to reach out to you. I need you to know that I'm safe. I know how you worry, and while I know you're likely infuriated at me . . . I also know you're an incredible, loyal man._

_I wish that I had been stronger for you at Hogwarts, that I had been able to see past the things that I clung to and punished myself over. You deserved better. You_ _deserve_ _better._

_To that end, I've started seeing a mind healer, (You can tell Ron I've kept my promise,) with no expectations of you, but with the hope that when I am less of a coward and less of an unmitigated disaster . . . that you might forgive me, and we might be, at least, friends again._

_I hope you're well, Harry. I think of you constantly._

_Yours,_

_Hermione_


	28. Chapter 28

Harry had received several letters that morning. He wasn't surprised. Dudley was writing to him several times each week. They'd reconnected with surprising ease. It seemed that once they'd taken Petunia and Vernon out of the equation, the two cousins had very little fire for one to dump petrol on.

Dudley's first letter back to Harry had included an actual apology; nothing like the "I don't think you're a waste of space" he'd received the day the Dursleys had left him behind at Number Four, just before Harry had left the house for good. Harry had apologised for his part in bringing down hellish magic on all of them. Dudley wrote back that he understood Harry had no choice in anything that had happened to him.

It turned out that Dudley had been seeing someone too. Not a mind healer, of course, but the Muggle equivalent. His cousin had tried getting his own flat after graduating from Smeltings Academy, but nightmares of Dementors plagued him enough that it was obvious living alone wouldn't work, at least right away.

He'd gone home to Vernon and Petunia, admitting to them what was happening and asking their opinions, but—in typical Dursley fashion—both denied the existence of magic and said that everything was fine now that Harry was gone from their lives. Eyes opened to his own parents' ignorance, Dudley had asked the parents of one of his school friends for advice.

That was how he'd ended up getting help.

Of course, there was a small issue of Muggle therapists not knowing what Dementors _were_ let alone the impact they could have, so Harry had asked Sabrina for help and soon was writing to Dudley with a recommendation of a local Squib therapist in Little Whinging who could help him more efficiently.

_Dad can't ever know,_ Dudley had written him.

_Trust me, if anyone understands how you feel about that, it's me,_ Harry had written back.

In addition to another letter from his cousin, Harry's post consisted of a short note from Kingsley, co-signed by the new Head Auror, confirming Harry's acceptance into the new training program starting the following autumn. There was also a small package from Mrs Weasley which included a few sweets, an _extremely_ formal letter from Malfoy thanking him for the return of his wand (something Harry had been putting off for a year), and a note from Gringott's saying that they had _finally_ finished an internal investigation and had pulled from his vaults the fine they'd calculated to cover the cost of the damage he'd done to the bank. The goblins had thankfully also taken into consideration Griphook's betrayal and the fact that Harry had rid the bank of a goddamned Horcrux—of which they only hinted at in their correspondence—and so he was given a new account manager and allowed to come into the bank, should he feel like it in the future.

Then, at the bottom of his post pile, there it was.

A letter from Hermione.

"She's seeing a mind healer," Harry said with a smile. "I don't think I'm exactly breaking her trust about that since you're a mind healer too, and you can't really tell anyone else about it."

"That's fantastic! I know you'd hoped she was. I can imagine you're thrilled." The happiness on Sabrina's face seemed genuine.

He nodded, letting out a heavy sigh of relief. "I'm just so glad she's safe. I still don't know where she is, but I'm alright with that. Knowing that she's getting help is just kind of . . . icing, you know?"

Sabrina nodded. "I know worrying about her was a stressor for you. How are you feeling, now that she's written back?"

Harry took his time to think on his emotions. Sabrina had quickly broken him of replying with "fine" when he clearly was not.

"I'm really happy for her, but I'm also worried. I still have that protective feeling, like I need to know what she's doing, even if I know that I can't be the one to fix whatever might be wrong. And that makes me worry about her."

"Would it be fair to say you feel responsible for her?"

He snorted. "I think it's obvious I feel responsible for pretty much everyone."

Sabrina smiled. "Thank you for making that point for me, because I was about to remind you that you are not, in fact, responsible for anyone other than yourself. I know we've discussed this idea a lot—but sometimes we can all use a reminder that other people's emotions, other people's reactions . . . they aren't our responsibility."

It was still a struggle, but Harry sometimes had an ongoing fight with logic in his brain. Even if he knew one thing, his fears told him many different arguments to counter the facts.

"I know," he said, looking down at Hermione's letter still in his hand. He'd not shown it to anyone, even when Ron demanded to know where the hell Hermione was after Harry had told him that she'd kept her promise about the mind healer. But he did keep the letter with him. He felt like he needed it to remind him that she had finally reached back—even if it perhaps meant nothing.

"I wish she'd come home," he whispered. "She said maybe we could be friends again. But . . . I don't know. The letter makes me feel confused about her. Or, well, about how she feels about me."

"Is there any part of it you'd like to share? Not to pry, but sometimes, an impartial opinion can help us think more clearly about things like this."

He shrugged and unfolded the letter, looking over Hermione's words with fondness. "She says she thinks of me constantly, but she also says that I deserve better," he said with a harsh frown. "And that she hopes I can forgive her. What do I have to forgive her for? She sacrificed everything for _me_."

Sabrina seemed to take some time to think about what he had said before she leant back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other and her arms over her middle.

"Sounds like the letter is less about how she feels about you, and more about how she feels about herself. She might think she isn't enough. She might think she's done something that would need forgiveness. It sounds like she's examining herself . . . which, if she's seeing a mind healer as well, isn't shocking."

Looking down at the parchment, Harry's angry frown softened. His thumb brushed over her chosen way to sign the letter: _Yours_.

_Mine_ , Harry thought. The word had used to feel possessive but now felt . . . something different. Something more.

"I wish I could take her hurt away," he said, swallowing down the rising emotions. "But I know I can't. And that's hard to accept."

"She's very lucky to have someone who loves her so much," said Sabrina. "And I know it's hard, and seems slow going . . . But Harry, being here, _doing_ the work . . . you're not just helping yourself. When you're clear-headed and healthy, _that_ is when you can help others. We can't pour pumpkin juice from an empty pitcher."

Harry nodded along with her, eventually giving Sabrina a sad smile. "I know. And I'll keep working at it." He paused and chuckled a little under his breath. "But in my defence, I kind of won a whole war without being very clear-headed."

She laughed at his joke. "Yes, you're very resilient. Kudos."

Harry grinned and looked back down at Hermione's letter. "Learning to be patient as well."

* * *

"Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we'd lost the war?"

Miranda tilted her head to the side. "I can't say that I have. Why? Is it something you dwell on?"

"I wouldn't say I dwell on it." Hermione studied the window on the wall between her seat and the mind healer's. "But sometimes I see something that reminds me of what happened, and it's like I can see a whole other outcome . . . a whole other life."

"That's the trauma."

"Yeah. I do some of the grounding exercises when it happens."

"Good! I'm so glad you've had a chance to utilise those."

"They don't always help."

Miranda laughed. "Nothing _always_ helps, dear. But what do you do when it doesn't?"

Hermione looked back at the woman, her silvered hair in high clips and her weathered face kindly watching. "I suppose I just let it happen. Breathe through it."

"You cope."

"Yes. Yesterday I remembered the snatchers . . . Greyback's breath in my face."

"That must have been frightening."

She could still feel it as her eyes closed, still hear the rustle of leaves and the heavy weight of a rough hand at the back of her neck. She could smell the sour heat of an unwashed man panting down at her.

"I was terrified," she said as she opened her eyes.

The mind healer waited patiently for her to continue, and Hermione took in a deep breath before she did.

"I saw it play out like a movie—Muggle moving pictures—and it was violent, and I cried."

"Would you like to take it to the pensieve?" Miranda asked.

Hermione shook her head. "No. Because I realised after a bit . . . it wasn't real. So I did that thing you taught me about, and I locked it all up, then I ran far away."

The mind healer looked proud. "Where did you go?"

This time, Hermione smiled. "Camping."

"Oh! That's a surprise."

"It was just a normal, Muggle tent. Enough room for two. I had a full belly, and I was warm. I could hear the wind rustling the leaves outside."

"Were there two in the tent?" There was a gleam in Miranda's eye as she asked the question, and Hermione blushed.

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"Your beau?"

Hermione could still feel him there as she closed her eyes, still smell his clean scent and the sandalwood in his shampoo.

"Mhm."

"Did you feel safe?"

"Yes."

"Loved?"

Hermione opened her eyes and looked up to meet Miranda's gaze. Everything looked vaguely blurry for some reason, and as something hot and wet tracked down her cheek, she realised she was crying.

"Yes."

The mind healer smiled, the lines around her mouth and her eyes growing deeper as she did.

"Do you think it's perhaps time to tackle the letters?"

She stopped breathing for a while, and the total stillness made the steady thunk of her heart beating in her chest almost as loud as a healthy Bombarda Maxima.

"Hermione?"

Harry had written her almost twenty letters since she'd left. She'd kept every one of them stacked in a shoebox on Ginny's writing desk at the Burrow. Sometimes, she took them out just to stare at the slanted scrawl of his handwriting on the outside of the parchment, where he'd written her name.

Of course . . . they'd stopped coming several weeks ago.

"What if—what if he doesn't love me anymore?"

The mind healer nodded thoughtfully. "It's a possibility," she said. "What would happen, do you think, if that was the case?"

"I could get worse. I could be depressed again." It was a fear that plagued her almost daily. She didn't want to sink into the sadness that had consumed her when she had left Hogwarts, not again. Some days, she couldn't help it . . . but on the whole, there were far more good days than sad ones now.

"But we know our feelings are always temporary," said Miranda.

"He could hate me for ignoring him for so long."

"But we know our worth isn't dependent on what others think of us. It's inherent."

Hermione frowned. It was a truth she still struggled to accept at times.

Miranda continued, "And that we _deserve_ to be loved, especially by ourselves."

"Yeah."

"Hermione?"

She forced herself to look back up at the mind healer.

"Will you give the letters a go this weekend? It's all right if you can't manage it . . . but I think it would be a good idea to try. You can report back on Monday."

She didn't want to . . . but Miranda hadn't led her astray yet. The Pensieve, the grounding exercises, the journaling, the personal check-ins and the meditations and the mantras . . . all of it. It had helped. Hermione could see now the progress she had made, could _see_ the conclusions she had drawn about herself in moments of trauma and grief that were unkind or incomplete, or just flat out wrong. She was challenging them . . . Drawing _new_ conclusions.

She wasn't a bad daughter . . . She was a brave daughter.

She wasn't a bad friend . . . She was a caring friend.

She wasn't worthless or unloveable . . . She was human.

"All right. I'll try."

* * *

The garden was hot, but she didn't care. The sun beating down on her was a stinging relief, and it burnished her skin almost as well as Harry's hand had her arse.

She wasn't sure why she'd been thinking so much about _that_ aspect of their relationship today . . . but it seemed as if every action she took reminded her of him. She'd brushed her teeth, and remembered the time he'd made it down her throat. She'd taken off her robe and she'd remembered disrobing for _him_. Hell, she'd hit her arm on the doorframe on her way outside, and the ache left behind had reminded her of more pleasant bruises.

Maybe it was her mind's way of avoiding the present, and their _current_ relationship . . . which consisted of a box of letters and her own stubborn pride.

"You'll burn if you lay out much longer, dear."

She blinked, throwing an arm up over her face to see Molly standing just above her, casting a shadow down over Hermione's face as she smiled.

"I won't be long

"I was just headed to Diagon Alley, thought I'd invite you along in case you want to get out."

At the invitation, Hermione realised Molly was indeed dressed for an outing, and then shook her head.

"Not today. Thank you for thinking of me though."

"Pish-posh. Of course I thought of you, dear." She patted her hair and then looked up at the sun and then back down to Hermione. "Try not to turn into a crisp. Arthur's got lunch inside when you're ready."

Once she had gone, Hermione stretched, sitting up and relishing the looseness in her limbs that came with a good sunbathing. After that, she pulled a sleeveless top and a pair of shorts over her bathing suit and headed inside, where she was met with the irresistible smell of Molly's sausage rolls.

Arthur stood near the stove, stirring a little pot. At the sound of the door closing behind Hermione, he turned and smiled at her. "Molly off then?"

"Just left. Sorry to intrude if you wanted some alone time."

Arthur scoffed lightly and waved an oven-mitted hand at her. "Nonsense, nonsense."

He picked up the pan with that same gloved hand, and it was then that Hermione noticed he was wearing a matching knitted mitt on the other, which held a wooden spoon covered in the mushy peas he'd been stirring.

"Food's all set if you're hungry," he said looking proud. "Don't tell Molly, but I plan on trying to heat one of these—" he motioned to the sausage rolls "—in one of those miniwaves that I keep in the shed."

Hermione just managed to keep her brows from shooting upward. "Microwaves are fairly simple to use," she said instead, hoping she sounded neutral.

Arthur looked excited but not entirely convinced. "Lots of buttons and numbers," he said as he set the pan down and took off the oven mitts.

"I can help if you like."

He grinned at her, a smile reaching his eyes and making the wrinkles at the corners stand out. "I would sure appreciate that, Hermione, thank you. Maybe later tonight. I'd like to give it a go once on my own first, just for fun!"

"Absolutely."

"Well, dig in, dig in," he said as he sat down at the table, handing her a plate before scooping peas onto his own and reaching for a roll.

Hermione served herself as he bit straight into the steaming roll much the same way Ron had a habit of doing, even making the same gasping sounds that Ron did when chewing something that was much too hot. Once he managed a swallow, Arthur reached for the large jug of pumpkin juice on the table and filled both his and her glasses.

"So, what plans do you have for this beautiful day?"

"Not much," said Hermione automatically, scooping some peas onto her fork and pausing as she remembered the one thing she _did_ have on her schedule.

She hadn't mentioned her assignment from her last session to either of the Weasley's yet . . . she hadn't been sure whether she had wanted to . . . But the couple had been her sounding board outside of her sessions with Miranda, and she had found their input and encouragement invaluable. Perhaps running it by Arthur wouldn't be an entirely bad idea.

She took a bite of peas, forcing them down and then looking back up at Arthur.

"Actually . . . I'm supposed to read Harry's letters today."

Even if he'd attempted to hide his shock, Arthur's eyebrows raised nearly to his thinning hairline gave it away. "That so?"

"Yeah. Miranda thought . . . Well, she thought it was time." She watched him as she waited for a reply. Would _he_ think it was time? He and Molly knew better than anyone save Miranda and Hermione herself how much she missed Harry . . . how frequently she thought of him . . . And how utterly she'd been avoiding any contact with him.

He nodded, his expression turning serious for a moment. "She's a smart one, that. I'd do as she asks. Been meaning to say thank you for setting George up with her. He says it's done him some good indeed."

Hermione nodded, not sure if she was relieved or if his agreement with the mind healer made things more stressful. "Of course. I'm glad she's helped."

Arthur took another bite, swallowed, and then dusted his hands off on his napkin. "Now, about those letters. You've known Harry since you were eleven years old. Do you want to tell me why you look so worried about reading what he's written?"

She took another bite of peas, swallowing them down and staring at her plate for a while before she answered. "He stopped writing three weeks ago. I'm not sure I want to know why."

Looking surprised by her answer, she caught the way that Arthur's gaze flickered to one of the windows. It was always left open, even slightly so during the winter so that the owls could come in and out. Right below the opening of the glass was a large basket where the post was dropped. Occasionally, the couple read the post and then set it right back down in the basket to be sorted later.

Arthur cleared his throat. "You know . . . Harry's been writing to us as well."

The confession was like a bludger to the stomach, and Hermione felt her eyes widen.

"Has he?"

Nodding, Arthur said, "Molly's been struggling to keep her silence about the two of you. We figured you might need your space, especially since you asked us not to let on to everyone up at Hogwarts that you're staying here."

She felt briefly ashamed. "Thank you for that," she said, and then, "He—I mean, Harry's all right, isn't he?"

Arthur's expression pinched but he eventually smiled. "I think . . . I think it might do you some good to read those letters. I will say this much, I believe it will settle your worries and your questions, that much is sure."

Merlin, she wasn't even sure such a thing was possible, but the _idea_ of it . . . It was tempting. And it made the idea of reading the words Harry had written to her at least a little less daunting.

"I still love him," she said, her voice low as she reached for a sausage roll, just to have something to do. It was hot between her fingers. "I don't know that I could handle it if . . . If I'd broken that between us."

"Well," Arthur began, "and I say this without betraying anything he may or may have not written to us . . . I know he loves you. Harry and I had a good chat over Christmas, and I know that the way he loves you can't easily be broken, dear."

"Over Christmas?" She sounded like a pygmy puff as she choked out the words. He'd known even then?

Nodding even as he drank from his glass, Arthur set it back down and said, "Absolutely. I'd taken him aside for a good man to man, seeing as I wasn't quite sure what Sirius got around to saying, and Merlin knows if that Muggle uncle of his ever thought to mention . . ."

His cheeks briefly pinked, and he cleared his throat loudly.

"Well, er, Harry was quite firm on the notion. Blurted it out like he couldn't keep it inside any longer. He was in love with you. Scared, of course," Arthur said with a soft smile. "I remember the first time I knew I loved my Molly. Made me a nervous wreck. Don't think I said a word of it to her for weeks after I figured it out myself."

His words made Hermione think of her own confession to Harry. God, when she'd finally told him she was in love with him, she'd followed it up with a declaration that they couldn't _be_ together anymore. He'd had good reason to be frightened of his love for her.

_I see you being very critical of yourself_.

Miranda's voice echoed in her mind, and Hermione took a moment to breathe, to feel the sausage roll in her hands and the breath in her lungs and the tightness to her skin that had come from being out in the sun just a touch too long.

She wasn't back at Hogwarts. What had happened, had happened. She was here. _Now_. And whatever mistakes she had made in the past, at _this_ moment, she was safe, and she was cared for, and she was loved. Loved by herself. Loved by the parents who had raised her. Loved by the parents she didn't belong to but who had taken her in and treated her as one of their own. And, if Arthur was correct . . . loved by Harry.

"Thanks," she said when she could speak again. "I—I've been building his letters up in my head since they started coming . . . Imagining what sort of things he'd have to say to me."

Arthur reached out and placed his hand over hers, giving it a little squeeze. "Chosen One he might've been, but don't give Harry too much credit there," he said with a little laugh. "I love the boy like one of my own, and _none_ of my sons are exactly great with words."

She laughed, and as she did she was reminded of the words Harry had only ever given to her.

_"I just wanted you to see what you've done to me wearing this tight little dress and soaking those knickers so nicely."_

_"The next time you're on my lap like this, I'll be inside of you. But for now, why don't you go ahead and rub yourself on my cock until you come."_

_"Seeing you like this, ready to do whatever I tell you . . . take whatever I give you . . . It makes me want to forget about paddling you and just sink into you here."_

_"I used to think that you could do absolutely anything. But, sweetheart, you're absolutely incapable of coming quietly."_

She blushed. Harry, at least, was more talented at wordcraft than Arthur gave him credit for . . . but it wasn't something he needed to know. Or find out. Ever.

She took a bite of sausage roll to keep from saying anything else, and when she was done with it she changed the subject, asking Arthur about his microwaves (he had seven!) and about how he'd managed to rig electricity into the shed. They chatted for another twenty minutes at least before they'd finished their meal, and then they parted with a brief hug before Arthur started cleaning up, and Hermione forced herself up to the first floor and her bedroom.

And the box of letters.

Which she ignored.

Instead of looking in their direction, she tried to revise. N.E.W.T.s were unbelievably close, after all, and she had worked too hard to fail them at this point . . . But she couldn't focus on Transfiguration with the stupid shoebox looming so large on the other side of the room, having developed its own, insistent aura.

She only made it half an hour before she stowed her books away.

" _Accio_ shoebox."

The thing zoomed into her outstretched hands, and she sighed as she sat down on the edge of her bed with it on her lap.

"I am worthy. I am loveable. I am kind." She repeated the words three times before she felt confident in flipping the lid open and fishing out the oldest letter. Once it was in her hands, it felt heavy. Heavier than the box itself, heavier than the weight sitting on her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe.

"Merlin's fucking crosstrainers," she said as her hands started to shake . . . and then she ripped the thing open, staring down at a familiar, messy scrawl that set her heart pounding in her chest.

The words seemed to run together in her mind until she reached the end, and then, four little lines brought everything into sharp relief.

_I'm sorry._

_Please come back._

_I love you._

_Harry_

Fuck.

She reached for the second letter.

And then the third.

Fourth.

She counted aloud each time she opened a new one—she wasn't sure why, but it felt right.

By the time she reached the eighteenth and _final_ letter, she was in tears . . . had _been_ in tears . . . and she knew three things for absolute certain:

First, Harry was still in love with her. The knowledge was at once a balm and a torture, and she both relished and hated it.

Second, it was a _good_ thing that she had left when she had. Harry was healing in ways she'd never imagined. He was finding and fixing things in himself she hadn't even known existed. He was doing it because she had left. He was making strides like she was. He was doing it on his own. God, she was proud.

And third—even knowing all that didn't make anything easier.

She read the letters over once she'd gone through them, and then left them damp with her tears in a pile beside her as she finally collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

She knew a fourth thing too, she realised as she focused on her breaths and on the gentle chirping of birds outside the window, streaming in from the garden.

She didn't want to just be his friend anymore. She wanted more. Wanted all of it. All of him.

And she didn't know whether she deserved it or not, but she thought in time, if _he_ thought she did, she might believe it as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We wanted to thank everyone for being so patient since the last update. La Matrona had family staying with her for the summer, and Shaya Lonnie went back to work recently so both of us have had our routines completely upended the past month or so. But we're back in the game and ready to get to posting the last few chapters of this story!


	29. Chapter 29

Harry was surprised that N.E.W.T.s. coming and going hadn't felt more climactic than it really was. Sure, it was a very important test that they'd ultimately spent seven (and now eight) years revising for, but in the end, it was just one more set of exams.

While the graduating seventh and eighth years no longer had any classes to attend, they still went to meals at the same time, still spent time in the common rooms, and still roamed the grounds.

The end of Quidditch was a much more fantastical affair, and Harry and Ron both cheered on Ginny and her team from the stands. It only hurt a little now to not be able to play. Gryffindor winning against Ravenclaw was followed by a large celebration in Gryffindor Tower where students of all Houses were invited to attend. Only a very small handful of Slytherins showed up, mostly the younger years who had thankfully made friends with children outside of the dungeon.

Neville was there with his new girlfriend, and Slytherin, Tracey Davis. The two looked like a decent couple, and she was nice enough to Harry, though Ron—in typical fashion—kept a careful eye on the witch the whole night until she vanished back to Neville's room with him.

Hufflepuff won the House Cup in the end, and Harry didn't ask but just naturally assumed that Gryffindor had lost out due to all the points taken away over him picking fights throughout the year. Thankfully, most were so happy over the Quidditch win (and not losing the House Cup to _Slytherin_ ) that no one mentioned it.

The closing of the year all felt very peaceful and strange. It was the first time Harry would be leaving Hogwarts without having a near-death (or in one case, an _actual_ death) experience. It would also be the last time he would leave Hogwarts, at least as a resident of the castle. He certainly planned on coming back from time to time to visit the staff.

Mostly, though, it all felt a bit incomplete without Hermione there to experience it with him.

"I wish Hermione were here to see this," Harry said as he and his friends sat out on the grass, overlooking the Black Lake. Birds were flying low, trying to pick off fish from the water, and the giant squid was attempting to play with them.

Ron and Lavender sat to one side of him, Ginny and Parvati on the other. Neville was currently leaning against a nearby tree with Tracey sunbathing and using his leg as a cushion for her neck. Above them in the tree branches, Luna was attempting to encourage a butterfly out of its cocoon.

"She'll come back," Lavender said with a soft smile. "It's home for all of us."

Harry gave her a grateful look, glad to see that—much like Luna's little butterfly friend—Lavender had emerged a bit from her own cocoon. While she'd worn her hair down in front of her face for most of the year, she had regained some of the self-esteem and confidence she'd previously had and now mostly kept her hair back, with the exception of a few strands here and there.

"I think we've put it off long enough," Parvati announced. "What is everyone doing once we leave?"

The entire group let out a collective sigh.

Grown-ups. They were all grown-ups now.

"Well, Harry and me are off to the Aurors," Ron said, stretching his arms over his head and scratching at a developing sunburn on the back of his neck. "You coming with, Nev?"

Neville looked up from a book in his hand that was also serving to shade Tracey's face from the sun. "Well, Professor Sprout mentioned she's thinking about retiring in a few years. I might take her up on an apprenticeship," he said with a grin. "Though, a part of me wants to just . . . I dunno, meander around a bit, I suppose?"

Tracey grinned, eyes still closed. "Oh, we're going to meander, all right. Poor bloke's never been to Muggle places outside of going to and from Apparition points. I'm dragging his tight little arse all over London."

"What about you, Luna?" Harry asked, looking up at his friend in the tree. "What are you going to do after you leave Hogwarts?"

"I haven't met them yet, but I'll be certain to let you know when I do," Luna replied matter of factly and then went back to whispering to the cocoon on the edge of the branch. "It's not very scary out here, and the temperature of the wind is perfect for flying for the first time, you know."

Chuckling a little, Harry looked at Ginny. "Well?"

"Quidditch," she replied instantly, dropping a pair of sunglasses on her face before leaning back to get comfortable in the grass.

"That's it?" Harry asked, rolling his eyes. Though he could imagine Ginny spending every waking hour flying around the Burrow, at least until she all but insisted her way onto a professional team. "Quidditch?"

"Quidditch and getting laid," Ginny amended.

Ron made a face and shivered in disgust.

"Don't act like you're not dying to find a flat right away, Ronald," Ginny casually accused. "I hardly think you'll be bringing Lavender up to your childhood bedroom for a quick shag with Mum and Dad downstairs."

Lavender let out a peal of laughter. "As a matter of fact, I'll be in my own place, thanks. My aunt has a little house in the Cotswolds that she wants me to look over while she travels abroad for a while. And you're invited over anytime you'd like," she said, kissing Ron on the cheek.

"You going to stay in Nightmare Manor then?" Ginny asked, turning to look at Harry.

He smirked and threw up two fingers at her. "Grimmauld's not so bad these days. I've actually done a lot to clean it up, thanks. In fact, I have plans on doing a whole bunch of remodelling. Hermione and I . . ."

He stopped, his smile fading fast as the truth punched him square in the chest. Hermione wouldn't be coming home to Grimmauld Place with him. It wasn't her home.

Everyone else must have felt the instant awkwardnessstuck in because Lavender was quick to change the subject. "We definitely must keep in touch. Even though we're not just down the corridor or in the other room, we're all just a fire-call away. So I'd better hear from all of you. I insist upon it."

Ginny lifted her sunglasses and grinned. "Want to set up some slumber parties now?"

Ron glared at her, and she laughed until Parvati pinched her side.

Harry began thinking of everything he wanted to do once he got home. He knew he needed to focus on the projects to clean up the house, especially since he likely wouldn't have the time once he began Auror training. He also needed to reach out to an associate of Sabrina's that was likely going to be his new mind healer in London. He would have preferred to stay with Sabrina, but she was remaining on at Hogwarts, and he knew she would be busy with all of the students. He wondered if Ron and Lavender had been given new recommendations for mind healing as well, but he didn't dare ask. They'd all had a silent agreement not to mention anything about therapy unless you were bringing up something about yourself that you felt comfortable enough to share.

He wondered if the mind healer that Hermione was seeing would be the same one Sabrina was sending him to.

Mostly, he just wondered about Hermione.

While he did want to give her the space she needed, he also tried to make a mental note to keep enough of his time open between leaving Hogwarts and starting Auror training, just in case she needed . . . no, in case she wanted him.

He really just wanted her to come out from wherever she was hiding.

"He's done it!" Luna cried joyfully. "Archimedes has done it!"

They all turned to watch as Luna helped ease the little butterfly from its cocoon, smiling brightly as it stretched its new wings before eventually taking flight.

"Archimedes?" Ron asked.

Luna nodded sagely as she began her descent from the tree, taking careful steps to avoid landing on Neville and Tracey. "It's a proper name for a butterfly."

"There he goes," Harry muttered, watching the little insect fly off toward the sunset.

Luna dropped down next to him, leaves stuck in her hair and a bright smile still right on her face. "Everyone emerges when they're ready, you know."

Harry put an arm around Luna and gave her a hug. "I hope you're right."

* * *

"There ye are, Harry. I've been looking for you." Hagrid found him lingering on the banks of the lake after everyone else had gone. The giant was carrying a basket over one large finger, and a large, messily wrapped parcel in the other hand with several holes around the top.

Harry grinned brightly up at his friend. Out of everyone he would be leaving behind at Hogwarts, he knew he would miss Hagrid the most, and instantly felt guilty for not spending more time with him that year.

"Hello, Hagrid," Harry said with a softened smile. "Are you looking forward to this summer? Any plans with all of us gone?"

Hagrid smiled and settled onto the bank beside him. Harry felt the thud as Hagrid hit the ground and set both parcel and basket between them.

"I told old Magorian I'd help with some acromantula trouble, but other than that, not a lot." Inwardly cringing at the reminder of the giant spiders, Harry forced his smile to stay put knowing Hagrid still had a soft spot for them. "Got something for ye though. Sort of a graduation gift I suppose."

Something in his chest warmed instantly, and Harry's smile relaxed into a genuine one. One thing he'd been working on with Sabrina was reworking what the word "family" meant to him. For so long it had become something bitter and unpalatable thanks to the Dursleys, and while Harry had always known that his closest friends were like a family to him, he was setting it in stone in his mind that they were exactly that: his family.

Staring at the parcel that Hagrid had brought him, Harry swallowed back some rising emotions.

"It's not much, but I thought ye might like to have it." Hagrid lifted the parcel again and set it gently onto Harry's lap.

Even before opening it, Harry looked up at his friend. "Do you know, you were the first person to ever give me a birthday gift?" At least one that he could remember. "I think that was the best cake I've ever seen—before or since."

Hagrid blinked, and Harry thought he might have seen a tear slip out of the corner of his eye before disappearing into the wild beard below. "Now I wish I'd made a proper cake instead of scones," he said, lifting the lid of the basket between them and plucking out a pastry before popping it into his own mouth.

Laughing, Harry rubbed at his own eyes a moment and then placed a hand on Hagrid's large arm, patting it gently. "You didn't need to make anything, Hagrid. But I think scones are great."

"Of course I did," said Hagrid. "It's not every day yer young man graduates Hogwarts."

Still not yet opening the parcel, Harry took a breath. He wanted to say thank you. Hagrid had never been anything but a wonderful friend to him. He was always a joy to be around, always there to depend on—unless it was keeping a secret, of course.

And a part of Harry wanted to apologise to him.

While he was making great breakthroughs in therapy and no longer audibly admitted that everyone who suffered in the war was because of him, he still had certain memories that couldn't just be erased.

One of those memories was of Hagrid carrying him across the courtyard, thinking that he was dead. Even though Harry knew that he'd needed to keep as still as possible, he had never wanted to put his friend through that.

But he also didn't want to put his own burdens on Hagrid now. That was for Harry to deal with on his own. So instead, he smiled, wiped his eyes again and said, "Thank you. Thank you for bringing me here."

Hagrid looked misty-eyed again, but all he said was "Open yer present, Harry," as he settled a large hand full on his back, patting him twice as he peered down at the large package. "I'm not sure it should stay wrapped for much longer."

It was then, at those words, that Harry really took notice of the holes in the top of the package. His stomach twisted a little, knowing that quite possibly anything could be inside. Acromantula babies? A miniature blast-ended skrewt? Harry was certain that if a dragon egg was inside, he would need to get McGonagall involved just for Hagrid's own welfare.

He tugged gently on the wrapping, worried that if he pulled too hard he might frighten whatever thing was inside and it would lash out and try to bite him.

But then, when the paper fell away revealing a square metal cage . . . Harry's heart stopped dead for at least a few seconds.

_"Tell yeh what, I'll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh'd be laughed at—an' I don' like cats, they make me sneeze. I'll get yer an owl. All the kids want owls, they're dead useful, carry yer mail an' everythin'."_

He remembered that day in Diagon Alley as though it were this morning. The feel of the cobblestone beneath his hand me down trainers, the smell of butterbeer in the air, the sounds of dozens of other children running in and out of stores all the while begging their parents for treats, sweets, and new brooms.

And he remembered the way his eyes had settled on Hedwig, curled up in her cage. He remembered the way it felt when Hagrid bought her, his first gift apart from the cake, and the way he felt instantly responsible for her the moment Hagrid set the handle of the cage into his small hand.

"I had Sibyl Trelawney transfigure the cage for me," said Hagrid, "Didn't want the shape giving it all away. But ye can always transfigure it back."

Harry just nodded, a bit too overwhelmed to speak.

The little bird in the cage was smaller than Hedwig had been, but she'd been fully grown when he'd first got her. This one looked younger for certain, but not a baby. Its tawny feathers were thick and delicate all at once, and he was glad that Hagrid hadn't gotten him another Snowy owl. He hadn't thought much about purchasing another owl, even though he knew the necessity of having one, but he was very glad that it was Hagrid who had given it to him.

"She's young still, but she can take small things short distances by now." Hagrid was beginning to sound a little uncertain now, and Harry could feel himself being watched closely.

He slowly stuck his finger through the bars of the cage, watching as the little bird stared at it. It stepped forward on its little perch, looked at the finger and opened its mouth to bite. It didn't clamp down hard, almost as though it were testing Harry's resolve. Quickly, the owl let go and then rubbed its little beak against the tip of Harry's finger before stepping back toward the centre of its perch and looking around.

"And, er, she ain't got a name yet. Shop owner was calling her princess but I thought it was a little much. If ye like 'princess' though, ye can always keep it. She's yers now."

"She looks like a Friede to me," Harry eventually said. He took a breath and put the cage down gently on the ground before standing up and wrapping Hagrid in as big of a hug as he could possibly manage. "Thank you."

Harry felt something wet on his shoulder as Hagrid sniffed. "Don't forget to come visit," said Hagrid as his beard scratched at Harry's shoulder through his robes. "Hogwarts won't be the same without ye."

"Might be a bit calmer, though," Harry said with a chuckle.

But Harry knew that he wouldn't be the same without Hogwarts either.

* * *

Harry and Ron, along with all the other graduating students, carried their trunks out of the castle and began loading them up onto the carriages along the long path. He remembered the few trips he'd taken in the carriages long ago, all the while assuming they were magically pulling themselves toward the castle. Now, however, Harry stopped to pet the lead thestral, giving it a little extra affection since he figured that, apart from Luna and Hagrid, the creature rarely received much of a kind hand.

Looking around, he could tell that some of the other students were terrified even though they'd casually seen glimpses of the animals all year long. Harry'd had years to get adjusted to their appearance, of course, but it was new for those who had only witnessed death for the first time last May.

"It's okay," he told a passing Ravenclaw that almost jumped out of the way when one of the thestrals on the carriage sniffed at her trunk. "I know they looked scary, but they're actually pretty nice."

"They're really nice when you bring them raw meat," Luna said from behind him.

Harry sighed. The younger Ravenclaw looked even more horrified. "Just . . . pretend you didn't hear that."

He hoisted his trunk up, helping Padma and Parvati both with theirs while Ron assisted Lavender, and Ginny struggled to keep hers from popping open, tossing her clothes and books out randomly.

Turning around, knowing that the carriage wouldn't be the way he'd get down to Hogsmeade Station, Harry put his hands in his pockets and headed toward the lake. He accidentally bumped into Zacharias Smith on the way, and sighed irritably but did one of the stress exercises that Sabrina had taught him.

"Smith," Harry said, straightening his spine and extending a hand to the Hufflepuff.

Smith gave him a dirty expression, looked like he was ready to sock Harry in the mouth but decided against it and just said "Wanker," before walking off.

Growling a little under his breath, Harry muttered, "Twat."

"No broken bones or nosebleeds!" Ron cheered as he slung an arm around Harry's shoulders. "I think you've really grown as a person."

"I'm gonna toss him in the lake if given the chance," Harry vowed.

Ron laughed. "Can't do that I'm afraid, mate. You know Hagrid's rules. No more than four to a boat, and that's for little firsties. I think it's just me and you going back across this time."

Harry looked at the boats all lined up on the shore. They seemed so much bigger when he was eleven. Ron was right. It looked like only the two of them would fit this time. Of course, if Hermione had been there, they'd have made room for her to go back with them.

As they walked closer to the lake, McGonagall appeared in his sight. She carried a small bag from which she was pulling out rolled up parchments and handing them out to students who would then board a chosen boat. The small bag had to have had an Extendable Charm on it considering there were well over sixty students graduating, and that was considering some, like Hermione, had done so from abroad.

McGonagall sighed a little as she approached Harry and Ron.

"Mr Weasley," she said, handing him the scroll. "Your N.E.W.T. results. I will say that I am pleasantly surprised, and that you have grown quite a bit since you took your O.W.L.s., though I do hope you will put a great deal more attention on your defence against the dark arts going forward, considering your chosen occupation. Exceeds Expectations may do fine here at Hogwarts, but an Auror will be Outstanding at all times, am I understood, young man?"

Ron, who looked as if he wasn't sure whether to be pleased or chastised, nodded and then smiled. "Yes ma'am."

Harry felt her gaze land on him.

"Now," she said, her eyes softening just a bit. "As for you, Mr Potter."

"I think you can call me Harry at this point," he dared.

She lifted a brow, looking like she wanted to scold him, but she smiled a little instead. "Once you cross that lake, I will do so. Until then, you're still in my charge." Her hand reached into the bag, withdrawing two scrolls, giving one immediately to him.

"How bad is it?" Harry asked, clutching the rolled parchment instead of opening it.

McGonagall smiled. "Well, I would have liked it had you done better in Transfiguration, all things considered, but I am very proud of the work you've accomplished here, Mr Potter."

He looked down at the roll in his hands and smiled. "Yeah, well, I figured I owed the school something. Decent exam results seemed like a good idea at the time."

And then she did something very unexpected. McGonagall opened her arms and embraced him.

"In all fairness, young man, this school owes quite a bit to you as well."

Harry cleared his throat, not wanting to argue with her, and instead hugged her back.

When the woman released him, she straightened her robes and held her hand back out to him with the second scroll she'd retrieved from the bag. "If you would please deliver this to Miss Granger at your earliest convenience."

Harry felt his neck turn warm, and he looked at the scroll nervously. "I . . . Shouldn't you just owl it to her? I don't even know where she is."

McGonagall looked impatient with his excuse, thrust the scroll toward him once more, and said, "Being as she is not a Demiguise, I doubt the task will be all that difficult for you."

_No,_ thought Harry, _but she still has my invisibility cloak._

Without another word, Harry took Hermione's N.E.W.T. results and nodded.

McGonagall gave him one last smile with an added pat on the shoulder before she moved on to the students behind him.

Harry stared at the boat ahead, pinpointing the one that Ron was already climbing in. He took a breath, turned around and looked at the castle one last time, and stepped toward the lake.

The trip across the water was just as serene as it had been the first time, almost nine years ago. Instead of the chilly night air of September, they were met with a warm afternoon June sun, slowly descending over the lake. Instead of staring up in awe at the castle that most had only ever heard or dreamt about, they were leaving it all behind, aimed straight forward toward the future.

Somehow, the boat and the lake and Hagrid leading the way made Harry feel very small and also much too old all at the same time. He'd grown up. He'd survived a war. He had a beard, for Merlin's sake.

Still, it was hard to admit his time at Hogwarts was over.

He wanted more than anything to turn the boat around and go back.

Almost.

Almost anything.

Eyes set on the shore in front of them once they'd made a turn and set for Hogsmeade, Harry spotted the Weasley family waiting for them. Though Charlie was already back in Romania, all the others had shown up.

Bill and Fleur were there with a little baby nestled in a sling that was wrapped around Bill's torso and tied off at the waist in a complicated pattern Harry could only just make out.

_Blimey_ , he thought at the sight, having forgotten that Fleur had given birth the month before.

Percy was there standing beside George, looking as different as two brothers possibly could. Percy wore his neatly-pressed Ministry robes, and George wore, not only his bright magenta Wheezes suit, but a giant neon green bow tie, and a top hat.

"Uh oh," Ron muttered. "I think he's up to something."

Harry cringed in anticipation as they both watched George retrieve something from his breast pocket. Something small enough that neither could make out. He fumbled with it a bit in his hands before tossing it in the air and then plugging his one good ear.

Harry and Ron braced themselves.

But nothing happened.

George blinked, glanced up, down, and then spun around in confusion before looking incredibly annoyed with himself.

Everyone else looked relieved, especially Mr and Mrs Weasley who were standing beside—

"Hermione?"

She was dressed in a simple, white sundress and flat sandals. Her hair was piled up high on her head in a neat bun, and she was chewing on her bottom lip as she scanned the boats.

He felt the exact moment her eyes landed on _him_.

She looked beautiful. Possibly more beautiful than he had ever seen her before that day. Not only was she pretty, she looked less burdened, and maybe it was because the last time he saw her she'd had tear streaks down her face, but she looked happier too.

He smiled at her, hoping she could see him, and when she smiled back, her grin broad and her teeth straight and white, he knew she had.

Harry opened his mouth, desperate to call out for her.

"Oi!" Ron shouted over him. "She's been with you lot this whole bloody time! We thought she'd been kidnapped! How bloody hard is it to send a damned owl!?"

Furious in his shouting, Ron began rocking the boat back and forth.

Figuring it might happen anyway, and being too excited to see her to wait any longer, Harry shoved the two scrolls that McGonagall had given him into Ron's chest and then leapt from the boat, splashing into the Black Lake.

There was a loud outcry on the shore when he surfaced, and then the sound of him treading water as he tried to find his feet. His robes grew heavy with the water, so he quickly shrugged them off figuring he could buy new ones later on.

"What are you doing?!" Ron bellowed.

"I'm not waiting," Harry shouted and began swimming faster.

"Harry!" That was Hermione's voice, he'd have recognised it anywhere.

There was a second splash, and Harry paused to look up, just as his feet hit the bottom of the lake and he pushed up until it was up to his chest.

She was coming toward him, the water up to her ankles as she swore and got a determined look on her face before wading in further.

Harry tried to swim faster knowing that she'd been mental enough to jump in after him as well, but two things occurred to him at once: one, he wasn't a very fast swimmer, and two, it might have been June, but it was also fucking Scotland, and the water was freezing cold.

Shivering as he stood up once the ground beneath him became more stable, Harry made a beeline right for Hermione, chuckling at the way she seemed to be fighting off the cold water even better than he was, though he was sure that he looked less angry at the lake.

Once she was nearly within his reach, he realised that they'd not exactly been communicative before this moment. Sure, he'd written her plenty of letters professing his never-changing love for her, but she'd only written the once. He was surprised as hell that she was even here. He didn't know if he should hug her, kiss her, or be awkward and say hi and offer her his hand or something stupid like that.

Thankfully, she was quite a bit shorter than him.

"Fuck!" She was up to her waist in the water now, but as it lapped at the dry bits of her clothing, Hermione smiled broadly.

"Come here," Harry said, holding his hand out to her before she accidentally drowned in an attempt to reach him.

She took it, her hand warm in his ice cold one as she let him draw her in toward him. He pulled her into his arms, holding her close but not tight, all the while knowing her feet were no longer touching ground like his were.

"I forgot how bloody cold this lake is."

"I can't believe you're here," he said, teeth chattering a bit.

Neither seemed to have the inclination to cast a Warming Charm.

"I wanted to see you," said Hermione. She was looking up at him, meeting his gaze with her dark brown eyes that shone like amber in the sunlight. He felt one of her hands reach up and card through the hair at the nape of his neck before it settled back onto his shoulder. It felt like hope. "I read your letters."

He smiled brightly at her. "I meant every word."

"Harry?"

He licked his lips nervously. "Yeah?"

She was shivering now, so he pulled her closer, and she seemed to melt against him as she wrapped her arms around his neck and settled her cheek on his shoulder. He couldn't see her face in the position, but he could feel her lips moving against his shoulder as she spoke.

"I'm still in love with you."

Harry closed his eyes as relief washed over his body, making him feel warm all over at least for a moment before the chill of the lake set back in. He pulled her tighter, holding her and running his hand up and down her back to try and put warmth back into her skin, all the while watching as the surrounding boats passed them by.

"I was really hoping you'd say that," Harry said, pulling back and settling one of his hands behind her head, looking down into her eyes as she tilted her face towards his. He looked down and smiled. She was wearing the key necklace he'd given her. "I never stopped loving you."

And then he kissed her.

She was as sweet as he had remembered, and just as eager as he was. He tried to keep the kiss gentle, tried not to press her there in the lake for all their friends and family and acquaintances to see . . . But Hermione. Merlin, she clung to him with both hands and deepened the kiss, opening for him and letting their tongues tangle as she pressed her whole body to his and he fancied he could feel her heart beating through the little white sundress she wore.

Somewhere in the near distance, he could hear cheering from the crowd. Some were clapping, but most—Ron and Ginny loudest of all—were loudly whooping.

Then he heard a great outcry from George, who said, "Fixed it!"

A loud bang rippled over the sky like a cannon blast, and Harry broke away from Hermione to look up as fireworks shot off in a thousand different directions, shining bright against the backdrop of the sky even though the sun hadn't set. Fiery orange dragons, bright green hippogriffs, and George had even figured in some little pink pops of fireworks that looked like pygmy puffs, and they all scattered in various directions over the lake.

The crowd went silent for a long moment, and Harry looked back down at Hermione with a happy grin.

"Have you been at the Burrow this whole time?" he asked her, grateful to the Weasleys now more than ever before for giving her the safe space that she clearly needed.

She nodded, and there was uncertainty in her gaze as she looked back up at him, biting that lower lip again. "I wanted to go home, only I thought—but then I read your letters, and _then_ I thought maybe when you went back . . . I could come with you?"

He let out a happy laugh. "To Grimmauld?"

"Yes," she said, sounding relieved that he had understood, and just a bit anxious to boot. "I want to go home. If you'll have me. I realise I've been a—"

Harry kissed her again, relishing in every bit of the moment, though he didn't take as long to part from her again.

"Home," he agreed happily. " _Our_ home."


	30. Chapter 30

Hermione had never expected that three and a half short months could feel like a lifetime, but as she sat beside Harry, nestled against his side and intending to stay there, she felt as if she'd grown into a completely different person from the one she'd been at Hogwarts.

The woman who had left Gryffindor Tower in the dead of night had been . . . Insecure. Self-loathing. _Broken_. But today, sitting on a bench in the back garden of the Burrow, she felt renewed. Strong. _Loved_. It was a spectacular feeling, and though she knew she was still prone to the sort of self-flagellation she'd participated in since it had become clear she wouldn't be able to retrieve her parents, and that she still had a great deal of work to do, she was certain that it was a feeling she would cling to with everything she was going forward.

A loud crack across the garden of the Burrow drew her attention, and Hermione looked over to see more fireworks darting up into the sky and exploding with vivid detail. George, it seemed, had an endless supply, and no one but Fleur had complained yet, and she only because they had woken her sleeping infant.

As the short display tapered off, Hermione leant further into Harry. His arm around her was a comfort she'd missed in their time apart, and his fingers—which stroked the bare skin of her upper arm—were a tantalising tease.

"Bloody hell, those are something."

A deep voice nearby spoke and Hermione looked over to the far side of the bench, where none other than Dudley Dursely sat with his elbows on his knees and his jaw slack, staring out at the spectacle of a Weasley party.

"He makes them himself," said Hermione.

Seeing Dudley for the first time had been . . . not exactly a surprise, because Harry had mentioned in his letters that he would be attending, but certainly a surreal moment. After everything she had heard about the Muggle during her time as Harry's friend, she had expected someone more like Marcus Flint. Snarled teeth, a bad haircut, and a mean look to him. Instead, she'd been greeted with a tall, broad-shouldered, fair-haired man with a round face and a nervous expression. He hadn't exactly looked like a bully . . . and Hermione supposed he might not be any longer.

Watching the look on his cousin's face with a grin, Harry added, "He and his brother once set some like them off inside of our school. It was brilliant. Absolute chaos."

Hermione smiled. "It was brilliant if you weren't trying to keep first years from getting blown up by them."

Dudley continued to watch the fireworks with awe for a moment before his expression tightened slightly, and he looked nervously at Harry. "They were the ones that gave me that sweet that sent me to hospital, though, right?"

Harry looked like he was struggling not to laugh for the sake of family healing as he said, "Yeah, he's a prankster. Definitely don't eat or drink anything George gives you. Trust me, it's not because you're a Muggle. He does it to the rest of us just the same."

"He turned my hair red one summer and called me 'Mum Junior' for a week," Hermione supplied.

Harry did laugh at that.

"I think it's a shame I never got to see things like this," Dudley said looking back up at the sky.

His attention was drawn quickly down to the garden though, where a particularly fast gnome was running away from Ginny, having stolen a tart from her plate when she had set it down for a moment. Dudley's eyes widened at the sight, and he pulled his feet back toward him as though the creature might stop and bite him on its merry way.

"Maybe not all of it," he said, his eyes following the gnome warily.

Harry chuckled. "I promise, I'll let you know if there's anything to be worried about." He let out a heavy sigh. "It would have been nice had I been able to show you some cool things, but even if your parents hadn't been . . . well, you know . . . I wasn't allowed to use magic outside of school until I was of age."

"You did, though," Dudley said, looking a little awkward at bringing it up. "With those . . . things."

"Dementors," said Hermione, wrinkling her nose as she thought of them

"And trust me," said Harry, "Even though fighting them off was the right thing to do, I had to go through a hell of an ordeal to get out of trouble for that."

"He was put on trial," said Hermione. She still hated to remember that he'd had to sit in front of the full Wizengamut. Fucking Umbridge. And she hated that she hadn't been able to go with him. She'd tried, but Arthur had stopped her before Harry had even come downstairs.

"Trial?" Dudley asked curiously. "All this time, Mum and Dad made it seem like you lot were just . . . I dunno."

"Uncivilised animals?" Harry supplied.

Hermione sniffed but said nothing. She was always shocked at how far her opinion of his aunt and uncle could fall, but she didn't want to say anything to offend Dudley now that he and Harry were on better terms; now that they had the chance at having extended family in their lives again.

Dudley didn't agree with what Harry said, but the way he hung his head a little said everything they needed to know.

Eventually, he cleared his throat and returned his attention to them. "So now that you're all done with schooling, where're you going to live?"

Harry smiled and pulled Hermione in a little closer, and she felt a warm glow in her chest. "My godfather left me his townhouse in London after he died. I've been fixing it up whenever I wasn't at school, and Hermione said she wants to move in with me."

Dudley's eyes widened dramatically. It was likely half to do with another of his parents' thoughts on what was appropriate, and an unmarried man and woman living together was likely up there on the list. But he gave them both a crooked smile and said, "Well done, Harry."

Hermione blushed and tucked her hand into Harry's on top of his leg.

"What about you?" Harry asked tentatively, and it was obvious the way Dudley's countenance changed at the mention of his current living situation—still in Little Whinging with his parents.

"There you are!"

Hermione was almost startled at the volume because she'd never heard Luna Lovegood speak so loudly in all her years of knowing her.

"I was wondering when you'd be ready."

Hermione watched as the girl approached, her hair plaited into a crown on her head and decorated with what looked like dandelions. She was smiling broadly and wore an almost euphoric look on her face.

"Me?" Hermione asked because it was clear Luna was speaking to one of them.

"Oh, Hermione. You're here too."

Harry chuckled the way he usually did whenever Luna said anything. "Hello, Luna. Oh, this is my cousin, by the way. Dudley, this is our friend, Luna Lovegood."

"Dudley," echoed Luna, who didn't even bother acknowledging Harry as she reached for Dudley's arm and tried to hoist him to his feet. She put all of her strength into it, but still, he didn't budge. Luna was small, and he was large, and physics were just not on her side.

"Um . . . " said Dudley, staring at her with an expression that was half starstruck and half terrified. "Do we know each other?"

Luna smiled dreamily at him in her typical way, never once ceasing in her attempt to get him to stand. "Not in this life," she eventually said. "But I've been very patient, you see. Come along."

When Dudley still looked anxious, and possibly even more so the more she actually spoke, he turned to Harry with a pleading expression.

Harry shrugged and said, "I've got nothing for you."

"Go on," said Hermione, who was amused at the determination on Luna's face. "Luna's a dear."

Unable to move him, Luna eventually let go of his arm and dusted her hands off before reaching into her plaited crown of hair and withdrawing her wand that had been tucked away. "I'd thought to save this for privacy, but, _Expecto Patronum_."

Everyone was surprised to see the little silvery spectre of a hare emerge from Luna's wand, especially since there was no need for a Patronus. But the sudden look of absolute awe on Dudley's face could speak volumes.

Luna smiled sweetly at him as her little hare jumped first into Hermione's lap and then up into Dudley's. "They scare off Dementors, you know."

"That'll do it," Harry muttered and watched as the hare leapt out of Dudley's lap and scattered off in another direction. Immediately, Dudley was up on his feet, his hand almost automatically seeking out Luna's.

"Come on," said Luna. "There's an orchard near here with a lovely little treehouse. I met a bowtruckle family there not too long ago. I'll introduce you."

Hermione watched as the pair receded, Dudley looking completely enchanted as he stared down at her, and Luna still talking in a low, happy voice.

"Isn't that something," she said, once they disappeared past the hedge.

Harry stared after his cousin and friend in confusion. "Maybe he has Nargles?"

Hermione laughed. "Do you ever get the impression Luna knows things we don't?"

"Constantly," Harry agreed, leaning over to kiss Hermione's temple.

With a small sigh, she let her eyes close and then focused on the feel of him beside her as the sounds of the party went on around them. She could pick out several voices she knew. Ron and Neville were nearby chatting with Molly. Arthur was trying to play mediator for George and Fleur after little Victoire had been woken once more. And Lavender . . .

Hermione opened her eyes, spotting her over on the opposite end of the garden beside a tall rose bush. She was sitting in a camp chair across from Bill, and the two were leaning in toward one another, chatting animatedly. For once, Hermione could see the scarred side of Lavender's face, and the other woman didn't seem self-conscious about having them on display. Hermione was glad. Lavender was beautiful, scars or no scars, and she deserved to feel it.

"They came!" Harry said, standing up excitedly and rubbing his hands off on his trousers as though they were sweaty.

Hermione followed his line of sight where, just at the Apparition point, a woman in a long dark dress began walking toward them carrying a child in her arms. Despite the initial shock of her appearance, and needing to reassure herself that Bellatrix was indeed still very much dead, seeing Andromeda Tonks was a pleasant surprise.

Harry took Hermione's hand and gently tugged her along to meet them halfway. "I'm so glad you came Mrs To—er, Andromeda," he corrected, something that seemed as though he'd already been scolded over. He smiled at Hermione and explained, "I started writing her and Teddy letters around the same time as you and Dudley."

Andromeda looked them both over carefully with a polite smile. She was a perfect picture of poise, that is, until little Teddy squealed loudly and excitedly pulled on a chunk of her hair, dislodging it from its previously perfect chignon.

The woman sighed, looking ever the exhausted parent. "Are you quite ready for godfather duties then?" she asked Harry. "Because I am not opposed to dropping him off with you sometime next week, providing your home has accommodations for a child."

Harry swallowed, looking both eager and nervous all at once, and Hermione gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "We're going to settle in at Grimmauld Place, actually. I'm not sure if . . ." He looked at her. "I may need to childproof a few things. I mean, if it's all right with you? It'll be your house as well."

Andromeda looked surprised by this. "Oh? So you'll have a woman's presence?" She let out a small chuckle. "And a Muggle-born at that. Good. I feel much more comfortable with letting Teddy visit more often."

Hermione smiled at the baby and watched as his hair morphed from sandy blonde to rich, deep brown, and his previously straight locks curled into tight little springs against his scalp.

"How clever you are, Teddy," she said, looking back up at Andromeda. "Would it be very rude for me to ask to hold him?"

Andromeda looked between Hermione and Harry for a moment as though she were sizing up their situation, but eventually, she smiled and passed the boy over. "Careful. He's currently very interested in hair," she said as she attempted to put her own back to rights.

Luckily for Hermione, her hair was very firmly anchored in the bun at the top of her head, and Teddy couldn't quite reach it from where she settled him on her hip. Still, he tried, catching her earring in the process and giving it a tug that made her wince for a moment before she was able to disengage his hand and remove both hoops.

"Harry, would you mind?" she asked, holding them out to him. "I haven't got pockets and I left my bag by the bench."

Harry didn't respond right away, but he _did_ smile, and the expression shot straight through her. It was warm and liquid and it made her burn in wonderful ways . . . meaningful ways. It felt like he was seeing something more than just _her_ when he smiled like that . . . Like he knew something she didn't but would be pleased to hear.

Eventually, Harry cleared his throat and took her earrings, placing them in the pocket of his trousers before holding a hand out to Teddy. "Hey there, mate."

With Harry's attention suddenly on the boy, his hair shifted, the colour darkening to black. Each little spring popped out into a straight lock of hair, the ones in the back going up into Hermione's face.

The rest of the evening passed in a pleasant sort of haze of joy and safety. Hermione and Harry spent a full hour with Teddy, cooing over him and amusing him between greeting well-wishers as they streamed in and wondering where Dudley and Luna had got off to.

When his grandmother reclaimed him, Hermione was almost sorry to see Teddy go. She looked forward to having him at Grimmauld Place. _Their_ place.

Well, Harry's place, technically, but she wouldn't do herself the disservice of thinking his name on the title meant it wasn't hers as well. She was _done_ selling herself short. Done selling _Harry_ short. She knew now how they felt about one another, knew that for them . . . This was it.

And she would never let herself doubt it again.

* * *

After Arthur taught him how the spell worked, Harry sent along his and Hermione's trunks ahead to Grimmauld Place, which allowed them to Floo home rather than need to Apparate. However, at the last moment, Harry changed his mind and took Hermione's hand, leading her out the door of the Burrow and past the wards so that they could Disapparate home.

They landed carefully on the front step, and Harry smiled, resting one hand on the doorknob. Looking at her, he shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, I think this felt more like . . . us walking into our home rather than you hopping over for a night or something."

She smiled at him like he was a bloody library, and it made him feel a little objectified but in a strangely good way. "Perhaps you ought to carry me in then," she said before blushing. "Though that might be getting rather ahead of ourselves."

Before she had a chance to change her mind, Harry looped his arms behind her knees and let her body collapse against his embrace. Lifting her was easy, but he was certain that ever putting her back down would take genuine effort.

He let her open the door, pushing it open with the toe of his boot.

"Strange," Harry said with a little laugh, standing in their foyer. "I thought it would suddenly feel different, you know? But it feels like we were just here."

Slowly, he put her feet back on the ground but kept a hand at the small of her back. He could see up against the far wall where their trunks had arrived. He didn't quite feel like unpacking just yet, though. Finding places for all his school things in a house that still felt a bit more Sirius's than his seemed strange. The owl cage too had come along with the trunks, but he knew that Friede was spending the night at the Burrow, having gotten on so well with Pigwidgeon.

Blinking, Harry wondered if they should go to the kitchen, only to remember that Molly had fed them until they were almost running away from her offering third and fourth helpings.

His eyes fell on the bannister, and as though it were a conditioned response, his mouth watered.

Harry shook his head, trying to rid himself of the image and desires that were conjured.

"Maybe," he began, taking in a breath as he turned to focus all of his attention on her. "Maybe we should talk? It's been a pretty busy day, and we haven't really . . . I mean, I just don't want to screw this up again. It seems like us not talking was a big problem before."

Hermione shifted on her feet, not looking uncomfortable at all, but exactly the opposite. "I've gotten a lot better at it since the last time," she confessed. "Talk away."

He took a moment to really think about what he wanted to say, and eventually, what came was, "I'm not all better. I don't figure that a few months of seeing a mind healer will magically fix almost twenty years of, well, everything." He sighed, scratching nervously at his beard. "And I'm not going to make any assumptions about what you've gone through either, but . . . I know you read the letters, so you know that I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Like I said in those bloody letters, you're it for me."

He might've realised he was rambling, but a large part of him didn't care. He worried that if he didn't get it all out now, something would stop him and some bit of important information would end up being filed away in the back of his head only to come out at a rotten time later on.

"What we had before," he began, licking his lips, "I don't need that. I mean . . . I don't want that part of us to be something that we rely on for . . . other things, you know? I don't need it or you to fix me. I just want to be with you. So," he took in a very deep breath, "I don't expect anything from you. I can wait however long you need. And we don't need to be . . . well, you know, it's not like I'm going to be picking fights every day . . . so maybe I don't need an outlet."

Hermione took a step toward him, closing the distance between them and taking his hands in hers as she looked up at him.

"Anything else?" she asked, her dark eyes wide but not with surprise or horror or anything like it. They looked earnest.

Staring down at her, Harry silently commanded his body to fucking behave itself or else. He meant what he said, and he planned on being a man of his word, no matter how desperately he wanted her. He'd never stopped.

"Think I'm good," he confirmed.

"Okay," she breathed. "My turn then." As she continued, she pressed her cheek to his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist and speaking against him. The words were slightly muffled, but not enough to keep him from hearing her.

"I'm still seeing my mind healer three times a week. I probably will for the foreseeable future, though I imagine the number of visits will decline eventually." Her fingers dug in just a little at his sides. "You're it for me too. If that's alright. I'm not sorry I left, because I needed help . . . but I am sorry for how I did it. Sorrier than I can say that I shut you out. And . . . " she looked up at him, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. "Well, as for the other thing . . . ."

He watched her look away demurely, and as though it were all muscle memory now, Harry ran a finger along her neck and said, using a deeper and more firm tone, "Don't stop there."

Her arms around him tightened again and she buried her face back against his chest. "I'd be lying if I said I hadn't hoped you'd rip my dress off first thing when we got back."

A delicious chill ran up his spine and he felt all the tension in his body release at her words. As much as she thought he might be the one in charge, it was her who had the power to bring him to his knees.

"And I'd like you to be as . . . forceful, as you'd like."

Licking his lips, Harry whispered, "It's not too soon?"

"God no," she breathed, nuzzling up against his neck now, where he imagined the five o'clock shadow was scraping her smooth cheek. "I've missed you."

His hands slipped down her body, settling on her hips. He didn't want to say anything, but despite years of not having an active sex life before her, what they'd had that year had not prepared him very well for the few months of celibacy that had come after she'd left.

"Hermione?" he asked, brushing his nose against her ear. "How fond of this dress are you?"

He felt her lips curl upward against his neck.

"Very," she murmured. "But that doesn't mean I didn't buy it while imagining you tearing it off me."

His hands moved back up her body, toying with the sleeves of the dress on her arms. "Then it's a good thing you're brilliant with a Mending Charm," he said before tugging roughly on the fabric, relishing the glorious sound of it ripping. He pulled another two times until the fabric was sufficiently torn away from her skin, revealing a creamy lace _something_ underneath that covered her breasts and her sex but was attached over the stomach by a thin panel of fabric that drew his eyes straight downward to . . . Fuck, were those garter belts?

Harry pushed her back gently and dropped to his knees, pulling the fabric down with him as he went, revealing the rest of her inch by glorious inch. When the dress finally pooled at her feet, he pressed a kiss to her thigh, her hands stroking his hair as he let the fabric of the garter belt rub against his cheek.

"I love you," she said, and Harry angled his face up, brushing his nose against the fabric covering the apex of her thighs.

"Get this off," he demanded, all but growling with his mouth against her. "I love you, but this needs to come off."

He looked up and watched with hungry eyes as she moved, unclasping something behind her back and then reaching down slowly until her fingers were between her thighs, right there in front of his face. She unclasped something else there, and the fabric parted, revealing her to him as the straps of the negligee fell down over her shoulders.

"I'm afraid it's a bit involved," she confessed. "You'll need to pull it down."

In a moment of frustration, Harry pulled out his wand and touched the tip of it to the overly-complicated goddamned fabric, whispering, " _Evanesco_ " and grinning when the whole thing just up and vanished, leaving her completely naked before him.

"Hey!" she cried, one of her hands coming back to the top of his head to steady herself as she reacted. "That was expensive you—Oh!"

He didn't want to argue, and he'd buy her a dozen new and much less complicated things to wear, but in the meantime, he placed his mouth on her cunt and groaned loudly. He was glad that she'd been upfront about her desires because, as honest as Harry was about going as slow as she wanted and however soft that she needed, the moment his tongue licked over her clit and her body gave a little shudder, he knew it would have taken every bit of his strength to be calm and gentle with her.

"No witch has a right to taste this good," he said, wrapping one arm around her thigh and pulling her body closer to him as he devoured her.

"Harry!" She said his name like it was a prayer and a curse all at once as she grabbed his hair with both hands, anchoring herself to him. He could feel the weakness in her thighs and the way her steady breaths turned into needy little pants, and all of it only made him want more.

He kissed his way up her stomach, stopping to pay devout worship to each of her breasts, before focusing on her mouth. After he could feel her begin to gasp against his lips, he broke their kiss and took in a deep breath of his own.

"Just so you know," he said, placing a tender kiss to the corner of her mouth. "I don't begrudge you for leaving. I know you needed to, and I'm glad you did. But . . ." He grinned darkly and ran two fingers down through her wet folds. "For keeping this from me for so long, I should keep you on the edge all goddamned night before I let you come again."

"I'm sorry," she breathed, straining toward his fingers with a glint in her eye. "I promise I won't do it again."

It warmed his heart to hear it, of course, but he also knew that he would pay more attention to her this time. She wouldn't have to leave again, because he would be there, talking and listening and supporting her.

Still . . .

"Maybe if you're good then," he said, shifting her around and backing her up toward the bannister. Slipping the two fingers inside of her, Harry bit down on his lower lip at the way hers opened when he touched her. "Mmm . . . You remember our safe word?"

"Yes," she whispered, and her mouth was slightly parted as she continued to pant.

He chuckled a little under his breath. "Because it's a really dumb safe word?"

"They're a brilliant—" her breath hitched as he moved his fingers deeper "—talented group of musicians."

Scoffing, Harry bent his head down and nipped at her shoulder just as he curled his fingers and pressed deep inside of her. With his free hand, he tugged at the buckle of his trousers, shifting and lowering the zip until he could reach inside and withdraw his cock, which was so hard he could probably come just by thinking too hard.

She shivered and moaned his name as he found the soft, spongy spot that almost always made her cry out and pressed the pads of his fingers hard against it.

"Not yet, sweetheart," he half pleaded, half demanded. "Trust me?"

"Absolutely." There was no hesitation in her answer. No artifice or trepidation. Just pure, honest desire.

Removing his fingers from her, his hands ran up her torso and then back down her arms until he took a gentle grip of her wrists and began guiding them up above her head. She melted into him and her trust in him was palpable. Not only could he feel her trust, he could feel the confidence he had. No longer lost in the lust and desire of her, Harry was focused and attentive. It would never be like it was before.

She gave him a teasing little anticipatory grin.

Harry took a slow, deep breath and stared into her eyes as he whispered, " _Incarcerous_."


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this story with Shaya has been such an amazing experience. I have been continuously blown away by her talent and by the support of all our readers. Thank you for sticking with us and for all your words of encouragement. We hope this story managed to brighten your pandemic just a little. 
> 
> — La Matrona 
> 
> Writing has always been my passion, and the first thing that depression destroys is your passion. Thankfully, I have an amazing friend in La Matrona who helped me stop drowning (still in the waters, just floating now) with the idea for this amazing story. It started off with a “let’s let our kink flags fly” fic and turned into a “we need Black representation because we’re done with not including POC characters” and “omg they need therapy. Get them in therapy because this PTSD needs to be addressed in a healthy way.” We are so damn proud of how this story turned out, and seriously, thank you all for going on this ride with us and being so supportive! 
> 
> — Shaya Lonnie
> 
> PS (from both of us): BLACK LIVES MATTER EVEN IF YOUR FEEDS ARE BACK TO NORMAL, CALL YOUR REPRESENTATIVES, AND VOOOOTE!
> 
> PPS: ARREST ALL OF THE COPS WHO KILLED BREONNA TAYLOR!

"What the _hell_ were you thinking, Ronald?" Hermione pressed a cool compress to her husband's split lip as she shifted their son on her hip. "You could have killed him!"

"I've already said I'm sorry, but I'll get on my knees if that's what you want."

Hermione removed the compress and Harry flinched slightly as Ron shot him some sort of look Hermione couldn't read but wanted to smack off of his face purely on principle.

"And _you_ ," she said, narrowing her eyes on Harry and then settling James onto his lap. "How many times have I told you that you're not allowed to come home injured? _Accio_ Murtlap Essence." The small bottle flew into her hand and James reached for it happily as Harry pressed the back of his palm to his still oozing lip.

"Stay still," Hermione ordered, unstopping the phial and taking Harry by the hair gently to tilt his head back. She watched as he tongued the inside of his lip, hissing when she moved his head again for a better angle.

"You're gonna scare the baby," he said, though James was busy happily chewing on his own foot.

Hermione looked briefly down at their son, his full cheeks and newly budded teeth on full display, making him look absolutely cherubic. He looked a lot like she had as a baby. Their hair was very nearly the same, and his skin was just a little lighter . . . but he had Harry's eyes.

At her brief attention, James let out a pleased screech and in the nearby window, Harry's owl Friede let out a bleating noise to echo the baby's pitch perfectly.

"It's not Ron's fault," Harry muttered as she tended to him. "He's actually getting a lot better at his attacks—"

"What do you mean _actually_?" Ron demanded.

"—and I wasn't paying attention. I was just distracted, is all." Then, as she leant forward to check another cut on his hairline, Harry took advantage of the view down her blouse. James, from Harry's lap, reached up eagerly and tugged at the fabric.

"Eyes up, the both of you," she said.

Ron made a face and audibly gagged. "Can you bother with the foreplay when I'm not here?"

Hermione stuck a finger into Harry's mouth and pulled his cheek over so that she could peer inside. If he'd cut himself on his teeth, that would need mending too

"Please," said Hermione, dripping some murtlap essence onto the wound inside Harry's mouth and scowling at Ron while Harry retched a little at the taste, "If this were foreplay, James would be in his cot and I'd be wearing far less."

Harry mumbled incoherently, waggled his eyebrows, and then laughed at whatever filthy thing he'd _tried_ to say around Hermione's finger and the murtlap essence in his mouth.

"Besides," she continued, "I don't feel particularly bad about making you uncomfortable when you've managed to _maim_ my husband." Harry made a loud scoffing noise of offended disbelief, accidentally swallowing some of the murtlap and choking a little. "I _need_ this mouth, you know."

"The two of you are disgusting," Ron said firmly.

Harry, apparently unable to take it any longer, pulled away from Hermione and spit out the remaining murtlap essence into a nearby cup, which he then had to move quickly out of James's reach.

"Ugh, I can't." He cleared his throat. "Mate, if you think we're bad now, you might want to rethink coming to the club with us tonight."

Ron's face turned maroon, and he looked down at his feet. "Wish I could, but Lav's all excited. Night away from the kids and she finally gets to see the utterly depraved life you two live amongst Muggles? Ha. I'd be lucky to get out of this."

"Depraved," Harry said with a chuckle, rolling his eyes. "You'll soon see how tame _we_ are."

"Not entirely tame," said Hermione, giving him a wicked look before she remembered that she was irritated with him and frowned.

Grinning, Harry attempted a silent apology for getting hurt by sliding a hand up the back of her leg. It sent a shiver straight up her thighs, but Ron _and_ their baby were right there, so she ignored it. "And be nice to the Muggles. We don't need you freaking out and having to call in backup because you flared up some accidental magic due to being all repressed."

Ron clutched his chest. "I. Am not. Repressed."

"All done here, I think," said Hermione, setting aside the Murtlap Essence and lifting James up into her arms again. "And I swear to god, Harry, if your mouth isn't in working order for tonight I'm going to scream."

"Oh, you'll scream all right," Harry said darkly.

Hermione squeezed James just a little closer and tried to ignore the arousal which was her body's automatic response to such looks.

Still huffing, Ron held his hands out toward Hermione. "Give me the baby before he learns any of those words," he demanded. "I'll run him by Mum and Dad's with my lot in about an hour."

She gave James several kisses on his fat cheeks and nuzzled the crook of his baby soft neck. He smelled of milk and powder and sweetness, and she wanted to gobble him up.

"His bag is by the Floo," Harry said, scratching at the cut on his hairline.

"You be a good boy for Granny," Hermione said to her son, who just cooed in response, before passing him reluctantly to Harry for a quick cuddle.

"Don't listen to Mum," Harry whispered conspiratorially to the baby before kissing the top of his head. "You do whatever you want. That's what time at Gran's is for."

As Harry passed James to Ron, Hermione looped an arm around his waist. It was still an odd feeling, watching idly as her son left her sight. She wasn't used to it yet, and she dreaded the day he would start at Hogwarts.

"Mind his head," she said automatically. "He likes to lean back and bang it against door frames."

Ron gave her an incredulous look. "Should I remind you that I'm actually more experienced at this than you are? Bloody looking after babies and their bloody little heads practically since I left Hogwarts."

Hermione sniffed, unwilling to let on that she was amused. "Remember to dress Muggle. Oh! And tell Molly he'll need a bottle before he nods off."

Harry tugged her closer to him. "Go before she changes her mind. We'll see you at Limitation tonight. Don't be late. Last thing we want is for you to go in on your own for the first time."

She watched as Ron left with half of her world in his arms, and then she rounded on Harry again.

"How many times have I told you to be careful?" she asked, fear and anxiety roiling in her gut again at the sight of the little wound still there by his hair. She pulled her wand and mended the cut then tucked it away again. "It's not just _us_ anymore!"

With dark eyes, Harry stepped into her space, reaching his arms down until his hands firmly cupped her arse and lifted her off of the floor. Settling her on the edge of the nearby sink, he sighed and kissed her forehead.

"It was just an accident," he promised. "And we weren't even in the field. Just some casual sparring. We had a medi-witch there on staff, but I didn't want to be late coming home because they had a line of new recruits with more serious injuries waiting outside the office."

"That doesn't make me feel better, you know. If this can happen in a training room—"

"This happened because I trusted Ron a little too much," Harry said. "I don't trust anyone when I'm actually out of the sparring rooms. And I couldn't help it. I was thinking too much about tonight."

She frowned, feeling her brows knit together as she studied his lip. It was healing nicely, and there was only a faint line left now.

"Kindly _don't_ think about sex at work anymore then," she said, but then she looked up and forced herself to look him in the eye.

She was always put on edge when he was injured. There had never been anything truly serious . . . a broken bone once, several lacerations that had been healed with little trouble, and a nasty hex that had landed him in St Mungos overnight when they'd been newly married . . . but she couldn't help the desperate fear that seemed to grip her every time he was hurt.

Harry smiled and leant forward, trailing kisses up the side of her neck that made her shiver. He breathed out against her skin and gently ran his fingers up and down her sides. "I promise, Hermione," he said, sounding genuinely apologetic. "I'll be more careful."

She sighed, tension melting from her as her body loosened against him. "Thank you," she said.

Pulling back to look at her, Harry grinned. It seemed such a short time ago that they were still children running around Hogwarts, but the small little laugh lines already developing around his eyes told another story.

"Now that my drama is done and over with, are you excited about tonight?" Harry asked, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I know it's been well over a year since we last went to the club—" Since they'd found out that she was pregnant with James, in fact "—so if you don't feel ready yet, we can always postpone going."

She thought about dismissing the question, but she knew a great deal of their relationship depended on honest and open communication, so she took the time to think it over.

"Little nervous," she admitted at last, once she had relieved that the anxiety she'd been feeling wasn't just about Harry's injury. "I mean I—well, I've had a baby. I'm not exactly as . . . svelte as I once was. The idea of being on display . . . I love it, but I worry that you wouldn't want me to—and then there's the idea of Ron and Lavender seeing it all . . . "

She _liked_ to be watched. It had become something of a personal kink since they'd begun frequenting Limitation after Hogwarts . . . but she'd never shown that side of herself to anyone she'd known before the club.

Harry grabbed both of her hands and brought them to his lips, kissing her knuckles. "Well, first, I can absolutely promise you that Ron and Lavender won't venture past the bar. Not only because I know him that well, but also because Ginny and Parvati are back together again, and they're meeting us there. Gin's promised me that she'll keep an eye on Ron so we can play."

The words were a relief, and Hermione felt the hard knot in her stomach begin to soften.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"Now, as for this body of yours," he said, growling a little under his breath as he put his hands on her hips and wiggled her around on the sink. "Not only are you as . . . what was it? Svelte?" She gave a little nod, and at the gesture he continued. "Not only are you as svelte as ever, but just like every other time we've ever gone to Limitation over the years, every set of eyes in the room looking at our little corner is going to be envious because it's _my_ cock that gets to fuck you."

"Promise?"

"Sweetheart," Harry said, grinning brightly. "You're going to absolutely love what I have in store for you tonight. I'd even go as far as to call it a gift."

She shivered at the declaration, and felt her nipples harden under her shirt.

"What sort of gift?" she asked, reaching up to stroke his cheek with one hand.

"Can't say," Harry declared firmly. "If you knew ahead of time, you'd be soaked until we got to the club."

"I thought you liked me wet and ready for you?" she teased.

Harry chastely kissed her lips. "Yeah, I do. But you also put murtlap essence in my mouth and scolded me like a child. So I think I'm going to let you suffer this one for a few hours."

He slapped the tops of her thighs twice and then walked out of the kitchen, leaving her panting and already so aroused she knew she'd be soaking her costume before they got to the club.

* * *

Going back to Limitation after over a year away had Harry filled with excitement. After they'd graduated Hogwarts and he and Hermione had fully moved into Grimmauld Place, they'd started visiting the club at least every few weeks. They had made a small handful of Muggle friends in addition to Courtney and Ivan.

Eventually, some of their friends from Hogwarts had started coming along as well.

Ginny in particular was a fan of the dancing scene and music that the club offered. Though she only ever liked to come with when she and Parvati were actively dating, but the two were so casual that no one could ever tell if they were together or broken up at any given moment. Though they didn't come all too often, one year for Harry's birthday, Seamus and Dean went with and had a grand time, though the pair never really left the bar. Luna admitted to knowing about the place, but refused to go into details as to how. Hermione had invited her once, but she said that part of her life was well behind her and she was happy to nest a little in domesticity with Harry's cousin.

So far, Harry had only ever seen one or two of their friends go into the back rooms.

Despite being the first to know about Harry and Hermione's particular lifestyle, Ron had held out the longest even with Lavender showing a deep curiosity.

Harry wasn't surprised to see that they'd arrived ahead of schedule. Outside the club and leaning against the wall were their friends. Ginny and Parvati were dressed for clubbing, and Lavender wore a tighter dress than she normally did, with her hair braided over one shoulder, blond curls covering her scars. While she had come to a place of healthy acceptance with her disfigurement, Harry figured that being around Muggles who wouldn't know what a werewolf attack looked like would make her stand out more than she would want.

Ron looked the most out of place, which wasn't a surprise at all. He wore jeans paired with a light green polo. It was an outfit that Hermione had picked out for him months earlier when they'd all gone to brunch at a Muggle establishment. Ron had never been great at dressing for Muggle places, and Harry laughed a little under his breath for not assuming that his friend would dress more for Muggles than for the club itself.

"Oh well, I look like a twat, don't I?" Ron asked when Harry and Hermione approached.

In contrast, Harry wore a dark bespoke suit; black except for the shirt and tie beneath, which were such a dark red that they practically blended with the rest of the ensemble. At his side, Hermione was covered in a dark grey trench coat, and for good fucking reason. Harry had seen which outfit she'd picked out. As nervous as she'd claimed to be about her body earlier, she'd tossed all caution to the wind as she'd slipped into a number that he knew he'd have to fully get her out of once inside the club if he wanted to play the way he'd planned to.

"Oh Ronald," said Hermione, who looked as if she were trying very hard not to laugh. "Transfigure it in the loo and you'll be fine."

"It'll be fine, mate," Harry reassured Ron. "No need to get all fancy unless you plan on coming to the back. Even then, you'll notice that the dress code is pretty relaxed here."

Just then, a pair of giggling girls stepped out of the club, each holding an individual leash that was hooked to the collar around the neck of a man that followed dutifully behind them. The girls each wore a little black dress, but the man wore a black chest harness and leather shorts that left very little to the imagination.

As the trio disappeared around the corner, Ron's mouth fell open.

"Nope," he said, and turned to leave.

"Ronald!" Lavender cried after him. "I have been looking forward to this since forever. We are going in that club."

Looking uncomfortable, Ron sighed loudly. "Fine, but I'm not wearing anything like that. And I'm doing this because I love you."

She kissed his cheek. "We can leave after twenty minutes if you hate it that much."

Ron sighed again and looked to Harry and Hermione. "No one's going to get funny with me, are they?"

"Don't be so presumptuous," Harry said with a grin, remembering his first time at Limitation. He'd been just as uncomfortable at first, especially when people kept coming up and asking him and Hermione to play. "If anyone wants anything from you, they'll ask first. And you can absolutely say no. It's the first rule of the club. No one will be offended, I promise."

"So long as you're polite," Hermione added. "And try not to gawk. It's considered rude. Healthy admiration is fine, but this isn't a zoo."

"A what?" asked Ron.

"If everyone's done coddling poor Ronniekins, can we go?" Ginny asked, looking bored as she leant against the wall. "The new Harpies coach had us all on a bloody cleanse for three weeks for some fucking reason, and this is the first chance I've had to drink this month. That and it's fucking freezing out here."

Hermione laced her hand in Harry's and gave it a little squeeze. He returned the gesture and nodded at Ginny.

As they entered the club, Harry said a hello to the bouncer at the door that he was familiar with. The man gave him and Hermione a grin and brightly said, "Welcome back, strangers!" before waving the rest of their group inside.

"Later, losers!" Ginny shouted over the heavy thud of the music as she all but darted for the bar.

Parvati rolled her eyes and watched Ginny go, turning back to stick with Lavender and Ron. Lavender's eyes were wide with interest, and Ron looked like he'd stumbled into the wrong establishment and didn't know what to do with himself other than to cling to Lavender's hand.

As for Hermione . . . Harry could practically feel her vibrating with anticipation beside him.

"Hey," Harry said to her, gesturing toward one of the sofas nearest the bar. Ivan knelt on the floor, the thick collar around his neck had a metal loop at the front which was being held onto posessively by an older woman Harry had never seen before. "Looks like Ivan's found himself a new Master."

Ron followed Harry's line of sight and balked a little. "Is he a house-elf?"

Harry laughed and clapped his friend on the back. "You going to be all right?"

Just then, a couple around their ages approached Lavender. One of the women was dressed similar to Harry but her jacket was left open and nothing underneath . The woman at her side wore a very simple dark green dress, looking more like Ginny than the other girls really.

"You're very pretty," the woman in green said to Lavender.

Lavender blushed and smiled. "Thank you. I love your dress."

Then the woman grinned and asked, "Is he yours?" while gesturing at Ron. "Does he play well with others?"

"NO, PLEASE, BUT THANK YOU FOR YOUR INTEREST!" Ron all but shouted as he pulled Lavender right up against his chest like a shield.

The couple smiled politely, gave a questioning look at Harry and Hermione—who shook their head no with a smile—and then went on their way.

"They approached me before you," Ron said to Harry, suddenly looking a bit more comfortable.

"Well done," Harry congratulated him, and beside him, Hermione pressed up onto the balls of her feet to whisper in his ear.

"Can I have my surprise yet?" she asked, and though the question made Harry want to adjust himself due to an almost instantaneous arousal, he couldn't respond because in the next moment, Ron smiled, sticking his hands in his pockets and began smugly rocking back on his heels until a thought occurred to him.

"Wait. Were they asking _Lav's_ permission to play with me?"

Laughing, Harry kept his grip on Hermione's hand but slung his other arm around his friend. "Just relax and try to have fun all right?" He paused, taking note of the anticipatory look in Hermione's eyes. "And do yourself a favour? Stay out of the back area."

Ron looked to where Harry gestured. "What's back there?"

Harry released him and tugged Hermione closer. "Things you're not going to want to see. We don't have _that_ kind of friendship, I'm afraid."

Making a face in obvious understanding, Ron waved them off. "Go."

Knowing that their friends were at least a little adjusted, Harry licked his lips and looked down at Hermione. "Let's get in the back so you can get rid of that coat. I want to show you off."

The way she quivered at the suggestion and her eyes trained on his, wide and waiting for instruction, said everything he needed to know. He led her toward the back rooms, nodding in Ginny's direction as she raised a drink to them by the bar, and then taking his wife through the entryway and into the hidden hall behind it.

While the building hadn't changed over the years other than a remodel on the bathrooms and adding in a few permanent structures, the rooms frequently switched what was being featured each week. The two-way mirror now showed off a single female surrounded by a group of people teasing her with various objects but nothing exactly hardcore. There was a new room specifically designed for couples eager to swing. And speaking of swings, an actual one had been installed in a room on the left. Harry took a peek inside to see it occupied, but that didn't matter. It wasn't a part of his surprise for Hermione.

Once they'd cleared most of the crowd in the hall, Harry let go of her hand and reached for the trenchcoat, giving it a firm yank to pull her closer to him. "Off. Now."

Her eyes lit up at the order, and she first untied the belt and then undid the buttons. The dark fabric parted, revealing what she wore beneath it in a spectacular display. Harry let his eyes trail upward, taking in the criss-crossing leather straps connected by metal O rings that covered her thighs, then the high waisted black lace underwear that were similarly attached to the leather garters. God, he knew he'd be able to slip his hand under the fabric beside her thigh, but he didn't think his cock would be able to make it comfortably.

Above that, more leather straps highlighted the trimness of her waist and her ribcage, a buckle connecting it to the O ring over her chest, running between both breasts and putting the black demi cup that covered her breasts on full display. Merlin, he could see her nipples through _that_ lace.

She no longer wore her piercings since she was still breastfeeding James, and at the thought, Harry finally adjusted himself through his trousers. It had taken a few years to go back to the parlour and visit Nigel, but considering Hermione had been very pregnant and just a few weeks away from her due date at the time, Harry thought that he could handle the pain and presented his own piercing to her as a gift. Hermione had been so excited, in fact, that—at a gravid thirty-seven weeks pregnant—she'd taken full advantage once he'd returned home with a piercing called a magic cross, and she'd gone into labour later that night.

The memory of that night—at least prior to the panic of immediate impending fatherhood—was already giving him ideas. He reached a hand out and rubbed her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, and Hermione let the coat slide down her arms, catching it and offering it to him.

Harry took the coat and threw it into the crook of his arm, placing his free hand on her waist. "Since you've chosen a little more complicated outfit," he said in a tone that was a little reproachful, "you get a choice. You can unhook _that_ ," he said, gesturing at the part of her outfit that would prevent him from easily fucking her, "right here or inside the room."

Hermione licked her lips, toying with the O rings that connected the panties to the leather straps of her garters.

"Decide quickly, or I'm taking the whole thing off right here."

"Inside," she breathed, watching him with a voracious look he never tired of.

Harry placed a hand on her stomach and slowly ran it up her torso, between her full breasts and eventually landing at her neck where the tips of his fingers toyed with the beautiful collar at the base of her throat.

"Still nervous?" he asked with a tender smile.

"No," she said. "Not since you brought me back here."

He understood clearly. There was something about the freedom in the back rooms that lended a special sort of power to a person. People at the bar might've come for a drink. People on the dance floor might've come for the music. But once you stepped through those doors, you knew what you'd come for. And everyone was on the same page.

Harry let go of her collar and then looped a finger through one of the straps at her chest, turning and walking toward the door, leading her behind him.

She followed, quickening her pace to match his and not saying a word. It was the way of things when they were like this. She was largely silent unless it was to react to his touches. The teasing came before she'd slipped into the submissive role she liked to fill.

When they entered the room, Harry wasn't surprised to see it a little crowded. A glance to the left showed him that their preferred corner was still available. He looked around, trying not to draw Hermione's attention when his eyes settled on something across the room.

In the centre, like always, a couple was putting on a display. Harry had offered it once to Hermione, and though she'd seemed eager, the timing had just never worked out between his busy workload and her work apprenticeship. Tonight, a young woman was riding the cock of a man below her who had both hands bound in front of him and a gag in his mouth. They looked enthralled with what they were doing, but it was hardly anything that he and Hermione were seeing for the first time.

He led her over to their corner, draping her coat across the top of the chair before he took a seat and turned her to face him. While it had taken a lot of nerve and a little time to warm up to playing with her in public the first time they'd come to the club, Harry had long since lost that bit of awkwardness, watching only for any hesitation on her part—of which there was none.

"Get that thing off," Harry demanded as he settled into the chair. "It's pretty, but inconvenient for what I've got planned."

She stripped with a thirsty look in her eye, moving in measured, efficient little steps that revealed first her thighs—with little red lines where the leather straps had rested—then her breasts, and finally her sex, the hair neatly trimmed and giving him a lovely view. As she moved, many of the occupants of the room turned to watch. It pleased him. She deserved their attention, and he knew that she loved it. He enjoyed it too, especially when he knew that only he could touch her.

The woman in the centre cried out loudly, drawing most of the eyes back to her, but Harry noticed from across the room that not _everyone_ had shifted their attention away from Hermione.

Smiling, Harry looked back to her and said, "Knees" as he undid his buckle.

This night was for her, of course, but he knew that sometimes Hermione's pleasure was best drawn out when he put her into as submissive a state as possible before fucking her. Especially in front of other people at the club.

She licked her lips again, leaving a glossy sheen on the red lipstick as she did as she was told, settling her hands onto the tops of his thighs and stroking him with her thumbs.

"May I?" she asked, staring at the zipper he'd only just pulled down.

"Don't I always give you everything you want?" Harry asked, brushing his thumb affectionately over her cheek. She leant into the touch, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment as she nodded.

"Will you let me swallow it?" she asked.

Harry removed his cock from his trousers, the four steel balls of his piercing crisscrossed beneath the head. The way her tongue came out and licked at her bottom lip at the sight had him twitching a little.

"Not tonight, sweetheart," Harry said. "This is just a little treat before I give you your surprise."

She hummed and leant forward, not seeming to care that her bare arse was on display to the entire room, and then she licked him, trailing her tongue up the underside of his shaft until she reached the head, and then taking the whole of it into her mouth. He could feel her breasts brushing against his thighs as she moved.

Harry let out a relaxed breath, the tension in his shoulders releasing even as the tension in his abdomen and thighs increased. Tenderly, he ran his fingers through her already tousled curls, resting his hand on the back of her neck but letting her do all the work. He knew exactly when she liked him to grab at her, and it was usually when he was barely coherent from everything that her perfect mouth was doing.

With a little moan, she slid him farther into her mouth, her lips moving down toward the base of his cock as he felt her press his head against the back of her throat.

"Mmm, yeah," Harry said, rocking his hips up a little as she moved. He glanced across the room and grinned. "Good right?" he asked vaguely, knowing that Hermione would assume that he was speaking to her—even if he wasn't.

She groaned in response, taking him deeper still until he could feel her all the way down to his base, could feel her throat tighten as she swallowed around him. Before he forgot himself, and keeping in mind that this was _her_ night, Harry gripped the back of her neck to ease her off of him.

"Get up here," he said, his voice husky. "I'm not going to come before you do."

She gave a disappointed little sigh that made him want to throw her over his lap, but she stood, smirking a little as she moved to straddle him.

Harry twirled his finger. "Other direction, sweetheart. I want everyone to see."

It was a favourite position of theirs. Harry's, because it had been the first time he'd seen Hermione completely lose all inhibition. That first time at the club had been nothing short of a revelation, and Harry wanted to recreate almost every moment—obviously with the exception of the lack of contraception; Hermione had dutifully applied the charm before they'd even left the house.

Her eyes widened at the order, and the playful smirk she'd worn melted away, replaced by a lusty arousal. She liked being watched . . . not in their day to day life—the reporters bothered her almost as much as they did him these days—but here in the club. When she gave herself to him. When he could touch her any which way and she'd say "yes please, thank you Harry."

She was a proper exhibitionist, and he found it both enticing as hell and adorable.

He helped her turn on his lap and felt her lean back against his chest, her arse pressed against his arousal as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Spread those legs for me," he said, lifting her and then reaching around her waist to help guide himself inside of her. He bit his lower lip and groaned, trying to keep his noises quiet because he loved listening to the ones that she made.

"Oh _god_ ," she moaned, one of her hands fisting in his hair as the head of his cock and piercing disappeared inside of her.

Nearby, a young couple paused to stare, both with wide eyes and covetous expressions on their faces.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Harry asked them, letting out a breath when Hermione rocked her pelvis.

He wrapped a possessive arm around her waist to help her move and then looked across the room with eager anticipation. "Are you ready for your surprise?"

" _Fuck_ ," she groaned. "This isn't it?" She rocked her hips again, and he could tell that his piercing was hitting that sensitive spot inside of her.

"My cock?" Harry chuckled a little. "You've owned that for years now, love."

"Merlin, you fill me up so good from this angle," she said, panting now as she finished sheathing him inside of her.

"Mmm," Harry moaned and pressed his lips to the back of her ear. "Did you happen to know that you and I aren't the only ones of our friends with a . . . _unique_ sex life?"

"W-what?" She didn't seem to pay his question much mind, and in the next moment she was using her thighs to push herself up a little on his cock then dropping back down with all of her weight and a pleased hiss.

"Yeah," Harry said, pulling her hair to the side and tucking it behind her neck so that he could press a kiss to her shoulder. The arm around her waist adjusted her a little in his lap, and he snaked his hand down to touch right where they were connected, feeling himself moving in and out of her. "It turns out that one of our friends happens to be a bit of a voyeur."

He nipped at her shoulder to get her attention and then gestured across the room.

He could feel the exact moment she realised what her gift was because her cunt tightened around his cock in the most painfully delicious way.

There, across the room and staring right at them with lust blown eyes, was Neville.

Their friend was still casually dating Tracey Davis—who was, at that moment sitting beside Neville but with Courtney in her lap, grinding down on her—and Harry wasn't certain if it was Tracey that had introduced Neville to the club or if Luna had casually mentioned it one day. All Harry knew was that one night when he'd gone back in to fetch his coat that he'd left behind, he'd found Neville in one of the windowed rooms happily watching Tracey fuck another couple.

It had taken a few awkward conversations for both men to eventually be comfortable discussing their proclivities openly, and Harry had been very clear about his "look, no touch" policy with Hermione. While he hadn't come right out and said that it was _her_ fantasy, Neville had seemed pretty interested either way.

"Surprise, Hermione."

"Harry." She exhaled his name, stilling completely on his lap as her chest heaved and she made eye contact with the man across the room. "How did you—Oh!"

His upward thrust was enough to make her lose focus, and soon, she was moving against him once more, open and uninhibited as she used the hand still gripping his hair to leverage herself up and down his cock.

"Happy?" Harry asked her, laughing when she made one of her noises of obvious contentment.

"You know—I am," she managed to get out between pants. She was sweating now, her body glistening with it as she worked herself over him and he reached down to stroke her clit.

Almost as though Neville could hear their conversation—or maybe it was just the way Hermione wantonly moved her body even knowing that she was being openly watched—he slowly unbuckled his own trousers and reached a hand inside.

Harry chuckled under his breath, opening his mouth and setting his teeth on her shoulder but not biting down hard, almost just to hold her there. After a few good, deep thrusts, Harry nipped her shoulder and smacked her thigh sharply. Hermione cried out in response, a sound he never tired of.

"You going to come for me?" he asked. "For everyone here?"

"Y-yes. _Please_!"

"Do you like your surprise?" Harry asked, feeling his own climax coming on, burning deep and low.

"Please," she said again, and he could already feel her fluttering around him as she begged. "Harry I'm going to—"

"Do it, baby. Give Neville a good show and come on my cock," he encouraged and stroked around her clit faster as his thrusts became erratic, his own orgasm reaching the tipping point as he started to spill inside of her.

She exploded, her back arching as her fist in his hair tugged hard and she screamed full throatedly. Her breasts swayed in front of him, nipples tight as she ground down against him.

Spent, sweating, and breathing heavy, Harry relaxed his touches on her knowing that she was often overly sensitive. He rubbed the spot where he'd smacked her thigh and then kissed the side of her head.

"Happy?"

"Yes," she murmured as her climax seemed to recede into gentle little pulses and she turned her head to the side so that she could nuzzle his jaw. "Thank you."

"You've been working hard lately, and I know you've been stressed with my job and the baby," Harry said, affectionately rubbing her hip. "I thought you could use a little _outlet_."

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11 YEARS LATER...
> 
> The room was dark but she knew they were watching. She knew he was watching. It made all the difference. 
> 
> The bright spotlight shining down on her, warming her skin. The scrape of the rope over her limbs and her torso… between her thighs. The dull throb of her nipples between clamps that had been tightened just enough. And his voice. Merlin, it was like heaven. It kept her focused—grounded though she was floating high in the air, suspended horizontally, face down and revolving slowly, offering the best view from every angle for anyone who cared to look. 
> 
> "You're like my own little Christmas ornament hanging there," he said, running a finger against the skin of her ankle. 
> 
> As he sauntered beneath her, she could feel his hair brush against the skin of her thighs, stomach, and breasts. And she knew that he did that on purpose. Hell, he'd likely cast the Hovering Charm with that specific height in mind, just to keep him barely out of reach. 
> 
> "I hope you're not very breakable." 
> 
> —————
> 
> Yup. A sequel is currently being written!


End file.
